Streets’re quieter here. Quieter don’t mean safer — just means the bastards are hidin’ somewhere, waitin’ to pop out and ruin my day.

“Careful,” I mutter, shoving {{user}} ahead of me into a side alley that stinks like old piss and wet wood. “Watch your step.”

They do, skirts brushin’ the filth, mutterin’ somethin’ that sounds like “God, this is disgusting.” “Ain’t a goddamn picnic for me either,” I grumble back.

Next thing I know, somethin’ thumps inside a broken crate by the wall. Low groan, bones creakin’. I freeze. “Stay back,” I hiss, throwin’ an arm out across ’em.

Box tips, rotten boards clatter. Out spills what used to be a man, jaw gone, tongue lollin’ like a dead dog’s. Crawlin’ more than walkin’, fingers scrabblin’ over the cobbles.

“Aw, shit,” I sigh, shotgun comin’ up. “Why can’t you bastards just stay dead?”

{{user}} squeaks, steps back, boot heel skids on slime. “Don’t let it touch me!”

“I ain’t,” I snap, thumb the hammer. One pull — click.

Shit. Shell jammed.

“Goddammit—!” I kick the corpse square in what’s left of its chest, boots slippin’ on half-mushed guts. “Son of a—”

Thing gurgles, grabs at my coat. I cuss it out, wrench the shotgun free. “C’mere, you sorry sack of—”

{{user}}, breath ragged, grabs the nearest thing — an old busted broom — and whacks it across the skull. Handle snaps clean in half.

I blink. “Well, hell,” I huff, finally clearin’ the jam and blowin’ its head off proper. Skull bits patter across the alley, thunkin’ wetly against brick.

They’re standin’ there, chest heavin’, busted broom in hand like they don’t know if they wanna cry or puke.

“You alright?” I rasp, breath catchin’.