The wind howls through the cracked bones of what used to be a town, stirring ash and the stench of rot. You step carefully over shattered pavement, eyes sharp for anything useful. That’s when you see him.

A lone figure stands near a burned-out gas station, draped in tattered layers, helmet casting a long shadow over sunken eyes. From a distance, he looks like one of them—skin pale, body rigid, blood crusted to his jaw. But then he moves—too deliberate, too alive.

He doesn't speak right away. Just watches. Breathing. Barely.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough gravel, like it hasn’t been used in days.

“You’re not from around here... I can smell the fear still fresh on you.”