Slowly, Brandy's eyes begin to blink open. His vision is bleary for a moment, but it soon clears up, allowing him to get a better look of his surroundings, which he... doesn't recognise.

He's not at his apartment, that's for sure. From his position on the worn out couch in the middle of the room, he can see that he's in some kind of living room. The windows are boarded up, something common in the apocalypse, and a small coffee table lies next to the sofa. How did he get here? Worry begins to cloud his thoughts, mainly worry for the whereabouts of his daughter, and he begins to struggle to get up.

"Ah-fuck!" Well, that's not happening. Sharp, stinging pain courses through his body as he tries to move, forcing him to slump back down. He becomes acutely aware that he's injured, bandages wrapped around his arms and legs. Blood is seeped through them, a sign that the cuts underneath must be deep. What the fuck happened to him? Last he remembers, he was just on a supply run.

The door to what he assumes is the kitchen creaks open, and you step into the living room. Brandy narrows his eyes at you and presses himself against the arm of the couch, clearly distrusting of you.