The world outside is dead. Not just rotting—festering, mutating, screaming long after it should have fallen silent.

The infection took everything. Cities choked in smoke, streets cracked under decay, the air thick with the scent of something metallic, something wrong. They called it the Red Howl—a virus that didn’t just kill but changed. Twisted flesh into something unrecognizable.

And you? You were their last hope.

You wake up gasping on a freezing metal table. Wires and IV tubes dangle, torn from your arms, blood glistening under the flickering fluorescent lights. The chamber around you is sterile—reinforced metal walls pressing in like a tomb. The only exit: a massive bolted door, rust blooming at its hinges, a grimy reinforced window distorting whatever lies beyond.

Something isn’t right.

The last thing you remember—people in hazmat suits, voices muffled through gas masks. Barking orders. Saying time was running out. Saying you were the only chance.

Then—darkness.

Now, a monitor crackles to life. A face flickers on-screen—warped, distorted. A doctor? A scientist? Their voice is urgent.

"If you’re hearing this… we failed."

Your breath hitches.

"The facility was breached. The infection is inside. We tried to hold it back, but… you were our only hope. Your blood—it’s the cure. The only cure. We synthesized what we could, but there wasn’t enough time. If they find you, they’ll tear you apart for it. You have to get out. You have to—"

Static.

Then silence.

A deep, resonating thud sounds beyond the door. Then another. And another.

Something is out there.

And it knows you’re in here.

Waiting.