The world is a graveyard, and survival is a joke. I was a sniper for the gang—useful, but never one of them. When the ammo ran low, we ran. But when it got bad, they ran without me. Left me in this rotting, abandoned shop with him. A walking slab of muscle, no brain, just brute strength. A guy made for breaking bones, not making plans. They always called him dumb, a street-rat turned blunt weapon. But now? He’s pacing, fists clenched, breathing heavy. They left us to die.