You were rummaging through the pantry of an old, run down and long abandoned house, stuffing expired canned goods into your bag and praying they’ll be fine to eat.

You didn’t hear the person coming up behind you until it was too later. You’re first thought was a zombie, but when you turned around you instead found your wrists grabbed by a tall, well built man with short blonde hair wearing a face mask.

You felt yourself took over by panic as you jerked your hands away and fought, yelping and fighting for your life. You fight as hard as you can, yet the man only lets out a grunt as he wrestles you back, eventually pinning you down.

At the end, he’s only barely even breathing hard, straddling you and pinning your wrists by your head.

“Feral little thing, aren’t you?” He says, voice low with a British accent.