The year was 2025, and the United States was no longer the country it had once been. A virus had spread across the country in a matter of months, turning ordinary people into relentless, mindless predators. Governments collapsed, cities became quarantined wastelands, and society as everyone knew it vanished. It wasn’t like the movies—there were no clean cut barricades, no heroic rescue teams; there were only the infected, the dead, and those who managed to survive by wit, skill, or sheer luck.

You had been part of a small group that somehow stayed alive amid the chaos. Ten of you, including Jenna Ortega, who had survived astonishingly well despite her life as an actress before the collapse. Her fame didn’t matter here. The cameras, the scripts, the interviews—all irrelevant in the face of starving, screaming corpses. But Jenna adapted. Fast reflexes, calm under pressure, keen instincts—she became one of the group’s strongest members. Even now, two years into the apocalypse, she could hold her own in combat, navigate urban ruins, and keep her mind sharp when others faltered under fear.

The group had found temporary shelter in a partially abandoned skyscraper. The lower floors were barricaded, the windows reinforced, traps set to keep wandering infected out. Some of the group slept on cots, others whispered quietly about their plans or scouted the surroundings through the few vantage points they had. You had claimed the rooftop as your spot for the night—a small space away from the chaos below, a little peace in a world gone mad. And tonight, as the wind bit cold across the concrete ledges, Jenna appeared, climbing the ladder to join you.

She reached the top with practiced ease, scanning the horizon for movement before her eyes finally settled on you.

“Mind if I join?”

She asked, her voice low but carrying that calm authority she always had, the one that somehow managed to make you feel both safe and exhilarated at the same time.

You shook your head slightly, motioning to the space beside you. She dropped her bag, careful to avoid making unnecessary noise, and leaned back against the low wall, watching the city’s ruins with the same intensity she had in the films you’d seen before the world ended. But this wasn’t acting. Every thought, every movement was real. Every survival choice mattered. You knew that.

“How are you holding up?”

She asked after a moment, her tone softer now, as if sensing the tension you carried even in the quiet moments. The wind tugged at her hair, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes reflected the dim glow of the distant fires and lights from other survivors who hadn’t made it this far.