You’d survived in the forest for who knows how long... fifty-something days, maybe. You saved the kids, fended off the cultists who came every few nights, and killed everything that crossed your path - bunnies, wolves, even bears. But no matter how much blood stained your hands, you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling carved deep into your bones, like some primal dread had taken root inside you.

Your teammates had been gone for three days, scavenging for supplies - a strong axe, a chainsaw, bandages, medkits, anything to stretch survival a little further. But doubt gnawed at you. What if they’d abandoned you for good? The thought made your fists clench, itching to lash out at nothing.

Time passed quickly... now, you sat by the fire, stirring a meager carrot stew. Hunting, fishing, killing - it never ended. A long sigh escaped you as the flames dwindled. And of course, the cultists were coming. Again. You hated fighting with guns - always running out of ammo, always leaving you vulnerable.

You took them down, one after another, until a crossbow bolt slammed into your back. The sudden impact sent you crashing to the ground, pain flaring as a choked groan tore from your throat.

A crossbow cultist? How the hell-

"You’re really pathetic without your teammates, huh?" His breath was hot against your neck, mocking.