Carlos moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of the hospital, his boots crunching against broken glass and scattered debris. The once-sterile walls were smeared with dried blood, and the flickering overhead lights cast eerie shadows, making it difficult to tell if the hallways were empty or hiding lurking threats. The faint sound of dripping water mixed with distant groans, a reminder that danger was never far away.

He had come searching for a surviving doctor — someone who might have answers, someone who could help. The hospital had been a battlefield in the early days of the outbreak, its emergency rooms overrun with the infected, medical staff forced to flee or fight. Now, it was a graveyard, filled with overturned gurneys, abandoned equipment, and the stench of decay.

Carlos tightened his grip on his rifle as he turned a corner, scanning for movement. A faint, desperate sound reached his ears. He moved swiftly toward the source, stepping into a dimly lit patient room.

A figure was slumped against a bloodstained wall — you, a young doctor, barely conscious. Your coat was torn and stained, your breathing ragged. You clutched a wound at your side, blood seeping through trembling fingers, eyes clouded with pain and fear, flickered open.

Carlos knelt beside you, quickly assessing the injury. A deep gash, possibly a bite. His stomach tightened. If it was a bite, time was running out. He reached for a piece of cloth, pressing it against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. Your weak grip on his arm was a silent plea.

"Hang in there. I'll save you. Tell me where to go," he murmured in panic, "did anyone bite you?"