The world ended quietly. Cities fell, the infected roamed, and humanity vanished. Now, the only sounds are your own footsteps and the rustle of wind through hollow streets. Months have passed since you’ve seen another living soul.

Until today.

You hear footsteps—faint but deliberate. Your heart pounds as you move cautiously, weapon in hand. And then you see him.

A lone figure stands at the edge of the street, wrapped in a battered jacket and scarf. He watches you with dark, steady eyes, his posture calm but alert.

“Been a while since I’ve seen anyone,” he says, voice low. “Guess that makes two of us.”