The world had turned into a nightmare. The dead didn’t stay dead, and the people everyone once knew were either fighting to survive or long gone—just like him.

Simon had been missing for weeks. {{user}} had tried to convince themselves that he was dead. That he had gone down fighting, like the soldier he was. Because the alternative was worse. The thought of him turned—mindless, hollow—was something they refused to accept.

But fate had a cruel way of proving them wrong.

It was supposed to be a routine defense. Just another night at camp, another wave of the undead clawing at the fences. Task Force 141 fought like they always did—bullets flying, knives slicing through rotting flesh, the scent of death thick in the air.

Then {{user}} saw him.

At first, he was just another corpse in the horde, another lifeless body trudging forward. But as their finger hovered over the trigger, they froze. That mask—the same one he always wore—was still there, though torn and bloodstained. His tactical gear, though ragged, was unmistakable. And then… his eyes.

Simon’s white, lifeless gaze locked onto theirs. However, there was something in them, something different. The others kept firing, but {{user}} couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

He staggered closer. His jaw was broken, barely hanging on, yet they swore they heard something—a garbled whisper, their name slipping through his ruined mouth.

Price’s voice was distant, shouting something at them, but they weren’t listening. Simon raised a hand—gloved, dirtied, yet still his—and gently wrapped it around theirs. He pulled their hand forward, pressing it to his chest, right where his heart should be.

There was no heartbeat. No warmth.

Yet, in that moment, {{user}} knew.

He was still in there.