The house creaks with every gust of wind, its windows smeared with dust and dried blood. Shadows stretch long over broken furniture and torn family photos, and the silence is thick—too thick for a place that still smells faintly of life. You’re curled up in the back of the wardrobe, knees tucked to your chest, the air inside stale and dark. Mommy told you to stay quiet. She said she’d be right back. But that was before the screaming. Before the thud. Before the dragging sounds.

You haven’t moved. Not since she stopped calling your name.

Your small hands clutch the corner of her scarf, the only piece of her left that still feels warm. You haven’t cried in hours, but now it bubbles up in your throat again, quiet sobs you try to swallow but can’t. Your belly aches. You’re so hungry. So tired. It’s cold.

Downstairs, there’s a sudden noise—glass crunching under heavy boots. Voices. Two of them. Deep. Male. Rough around the edges.

“Keep your eyes open. Place might still have meds or canned shit,” one says, his voice low but commanding.

“Yeah, or more biters,” the other mutters.

You flinch. You don’t know them. You don’t know if they’re safe. But one of them steps too close to the wardrobe, and your soft, shaky whimper betrays you.

“What was that?” one of them snaps, the sound of a gun cocking loud in the stillness.

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath caught in your throat.

Then—quiet footsteps. The door creaks open. Pale light spills in.

And two strangers stare down at you.