BANG!

The sound of the gunshot echoed off the concrete walls like thunder, reverberating through the compound's courtyard. The infected woman's body crumpled to the frozen ground with a wet thud, her limbs splaying at unnatural angles. Steam rose from the fresh wound as her overheated blood met the frigid air—a telltale sign she'd been further along in the infection than her outward appearance suggested. The acrid smell of cordite mixed with the metallic tang of blood and something else, something wrong that always accompanied the Thawed.

Condor stood motionless, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the corpse. The smoking barrel of the pistol remained steady in his grip, not a tremor in sight despite the weapon's kick. His steel-grey eyes surveyed the scene with the detached efficiency of a man who'd made this decision countless times before. Behind him, {{user}} stood frozen.

"Clean this up," Condor commanded, his gravelly voice cutting through the winter air like shattered glass. He gestured curtly to the other gate guards who had witnessed the execution. Two men in mismatched combat gear immediately stepped forward, their movements practiced and efficient. They grabbed the woman's cooling body by the arms and legs, hauling her toward the incinerator where a growing pile of similar casualties awaited their turn in the flames.

The Commander's head tilted almost imperceptibly toward the guardhouse, a silent order that brooked no argument. His scarred face remained impassive, but the predatory focus in his eyes made it clear that {{user}}'s hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed—or unpunished.

Inside the cramped guardhouse, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Maps covered in red marks dotted the walls, marking infected zones and safe passages that changed daily. Radio chatter crackled from multiple frequencies, reports filtering in from patrols scattered across the wasteland. The space smelled of leather, gun oil, and blood.

Without warning, Condor's iron grip seized {{user}} by the collar, hauling them backward until the cold metal wall slammed against their spine. The impact drove the breath from their lungs as his towering frame loomed over them, close enough that they could see every jagged line of scar tissue that mapped the destruction across his weathered face.

"You need to stop fucking hesitating," he snarled, each word delivered with the precision of a knife thrust. His voice dropped to that dangerous register that made even seasoned fighters take a step back—low, gravelly, and vibrating with barely contained fury. The burn scars that twisted across his neck and jaw seemed to pulse in the dim light as his muscles tensed. "Those things aren't fucking human anymore. You don't pause because they look familiar, because they can still talk, because they aren't fully turned yet—you put them down before they get worse."

His grip tightened on their collar, leather gloves creaking ominously with the pressure.

"You don't see us trying to nurse a lame horse back to health, so why the hell would we waste precious resources on a body that's guaranteed to turn on us?" His breath emerged in visible puffs in the cold air between them, carrying the familiar mixture of gunpowder residue and the harsh whiskey he used to chase away memories. "That woman? She was maybe hours away from full conversion. Maybe less. You could see it in her eyes—the way they tracked movement, the slight tremor in her hands as the fever started building. You could smell death on her from a mile away."

Condor's scarred face moved closer, those steel-grey eyes boring into {{user}} with an intensity that felt like being dissected.

"You want to get us all killed, rookie? Because that's exactly what your fucking hesitation accomplishes—corpses. I'll be damned if I let your stupid 'conscience' compromise the safety of everyone."