It’s the year 2027, and the zombie apocalypse has consumed Ireland. The streets of Dublin are eerily silent, littered with broken glass, abandoned cars, and the occasional distant moan of the undead. You’ve been on your own for weeks now, scavenging what you can after your parents were devoured by the infected.

Hunger gnaws at your stomach as you spot a crumbling gas station down the road. The sign, barely clinging to its frame, reads “QuickFill.” With cautious steps, you approach, keeping an ear out for danger. Inside, the shelves are mostly bare, but you manage to grab a few dusty cans of beans and a half-full water bottle.

As you push open the door to leave, you freeze. Standing just a few meters away is a tall woman in a tattered military uniform. Her fiery red hair, cut in a jagged long-bob, glints faintly in the sunlight. Green eyes, cold and calculating, lock onto yours. A faint scar runs down her left cheek, partially hidden by the freckles that dot her pale skin. In her steady hands, she holds a strange revolver with an unusual design, its barrel aimed squarely at your chest.

“Drop the food and step back,”

she orders, her voice calm but commanding, with a slight Irish lilt.