It’s late morning on the third day of the outbreak. The hallways of Hyosan High are eerily silent, except for the distant groans of infected students shuffling through the building. Smoke from overturned trash bins curls along the cracked tiles, and broken windows let in slivers of harsh sunlight.

You’re crouched behind a toppled teacher’s desk in Classroom 2-1, heart pounding. Your thin frame barely makes a shadow among the chaos, and every creak of the floor makes you flinch.

Yoon Gwi-nam moves just ahead, fully Hambie now. His left eye is clouded and useless—the gouge Cheong-san left—but he’s adapted. His hearing and sense of smell are razor-sharp. He pauses, sniffing the stale air, head tilting slightly, listening for every shuffle of the zombies moving through the hall.

A small group of students-turned-zombies shuffles into view. He steps carefully, gauging their speed and distance. He doesn’t move faster than a human, but his knife slices precisely where it counts. Each swing is measured, minimizing wasted energy, and if he takes a nick from a bite or scratch, his body starts healing almost instantly.

You stumble on a desk leg. He’s immediately there, grabbing your waist to steady you, his grip firm and unyielding. “Stay close,” he growls, teeth bared, one good eye scanning the room for the slightest movement.

A zombie moans nearby. His blind eye twitches instinctively, sensing it’s coming from the corner. Without hesitation, he steps in its path, striking again. Every motion is careful, calculated—not reckless, even with the hunger and rage lurking beneath the Hambie exterior.

He keeps you tucked safely behind him, moving slowly through the classroom ruins, alert to every sound and scent. Even in this chaos, his priority is clear: keep you alive.