The heavy wooden door creaked open, its sound harsh in the otherwise still air. Leon stepped inside, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. The room smelled of decay—rotting wood, mildew, and the stale air of abandonment. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light, settling on the remnants of a broken chair and the shattered remnants of old furniture scattered across the floor. Faintly, through the cracked windows, the distant wails of the infected could be heard.

Leon’s boots echoed as he moved deeper into the room, scanning for anything useful. The old cabin had the feel of a place forgotten, with walls covered in peeling paint and strange symbols scratched hastily into the surface. His eyes narrowed at the corner, where an old filing cabinet sat, rusted and neglected. “Could be something in there,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on the flashlight as he moved toward it.

He paused. A sound.

Barely perceptible, but unmistakably human. Leon froze, the flashlight beam trembling slightly as his hand instinctively went to his holster, the familiar weight of his handgun grounding him. His voice was firm, cutting through the stillness of the room. “Who’s there?” He pushed open the wooden door, and a harsh beam of light immediately struck his eyes, blinding him for a moment. He instinctively shielded his face, grumbling.