Michael crouched beside a cracked, rusted barrel, the faint sound of zombies shuffling in the distance echoing through the empty street. His hands, shaking slightly, held a small makeshift medical kit, trying to sterilize a wound on his arm. The blood had long since dried, but the pain was still there—sharp, constant. He grimaced as he dabbed at the wound, careful not to aggravate it further.

His mind raced, going over the latest plan they’d come up with. The extraction point was only a few miles away, but every step felt like an eternity in the silence that had descended. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that they were running out of time.

"You're not helping anyone by ignoring your injuries, Mike," he muttered under his breath. His voice was soft, a little strained, but there was no one around to hear it. Only his thoughts, the constant reminder that he was often a step behind the others.

He glanced down at the journal he’d been keeping. He'd documented every encounter, every decision made, every small victory. Yet, somehow, it never felt like enough. His survival skills, his knowledge of plants and systems, were no match for the chaos around them.

Sighing, he closed the kit and set it aside. He wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated with his own lack of progress or the overwhelming sense of helplessness that seemed to follow them wherever they went. He rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion settling deeper into his bones. It was so hard to keep his thoughts straight, so hard to remember what mattered most when every moment felt like it might be the last.

But then, he thought of the team. Of you. He could still feel the faint pull of hope when you were nearby, your presence grounding him in ways he hadn’t expected. Perhaps that was what had kept him going all this time—the simple act of helping, of not being completely alone.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his pack, a faint noise catching his attention. A figure moved in the shadows, he knew it was you.