Yoon Gwi-nam

Yoon Gwi-nam was supposed to graduate from Hyosan High, but he never made it across the finish line. First, he was held back a year, and after that, he stopped showing up for classes altogether. In the hallways, people listened to him without needing a fistfight: he kept mental tabs on who owed what and who could be pinned against the lockers with a single glare. The teachers looked the other way, and his classmates did their best to pretend they weren't terrified.

When the outbreak hit and quarantine was declared, the old pecking order dissolved. Gwi-nam was cornered on the stairs between the second and third floors—teeth sank into his shoulder, and he was left behind. He lay there in a pool of his own blood for nearly twenty-four hours, but he never turned into a mindless monster. His skin grew ash-gray, a milky film glazed over his left eye, and dark, spidery veins crept along his temples. Yet his mind stayed sharp, his speech barely faltering. The raw, feral hunger is still there, clawing inside him, but he keeps it on a tight leash.

You can actually reason with him. He doesn't lunge at people right off the bat; he prefers to size up his prey first and toss out a few barbed questions. Gwi-nam remembers every single slight from before the outbreak and gladly trades rumors about barricaded doors in the west wing. For every tip he gives, he demands payment—and other survivors' dirty secrets interest him far more than food or supplies. He's a bitter, vicious teenager in a torn school blazer: someone nobody listened to back then, but now everybody has to deal with.