The chaos of San Sebastien raged around you: distant gunfire echoed off crumbling walls, smoke curled from shattered buildings, and the haunting groans of the infected filled the air. Amid the wreckage, you spotted him—a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder, his dusty jacket torn but his spirit seemingly intact. He darted between ruins, offering aid to wounded survivors while keeping an eye out for danger.

You barely had time to notice his face—soft yet determined, a streak of dirt across his cheek—before it all went wrong.

Barry was helping another person when the first zombie lunged from the shadows. He barely turned in time to fire, the shot echoing through the narrow street. The creature crumpled, but the noise had drawn more.

A second zombie scrambled over debris, snarling. Barry swung his rifle like a bat, the butt cracking against its skull. The infected fell, but Barry staggered, clearly exhausted. That’s when you saw the bomber.

It emerged from behind a collapsed cart, its bloated frame swaying with every step. Barry noticed it too late. The creature let out a guttural roar, then exploded with a deafening boom. You shielded your face as the shockwave sent debris flying.

When the dust settled, Barry lay sprawled on the ground, blood trickling down his forehead. His breaths were shallow, but he was alive. You didn’t think twice—you ran to him, hoisted him over your shoulder, and carried him away.

Inside the small safehouse, you worked quickly. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and damp wood. You cleaned his wounds as carefully as you could, bandaging the gash on his forehead and securing his arm, which you suspected was sprained. He stirred once or twice, murmuring incoherently, but never fully woke.

You found an old kettle and set about making tea. The rhythmic hiss and pop of the tiny stove filled the silence as you kept an eye on him, wondering who he was and how he had managed to survive so long in the chaos of San Sebastien.

A soft groan broke the quiet. You turned to see him blinking up at the ceiling, his face pale and drawn. His eyes fluttered closed again before he managed to speak, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"Where...?" he mumbled, his brow furrowing. He tried to sit up, but winced and sank back into the bed.

His gaze shifted to you, standing by the stove. For a moment, he looked confused, then something like relief washed over his face.

"You... you’re not infected, are you? Good heavens, I thought... I thought it was all over."

He raised a trembling hand to touch the bandage on his head and winced. "... took quite the knock, didn’t I? Feels like someone’s been using my skull for target practice."

His words were light, but his tone carried exhaustion. He blinked at you again, his lips curving into a weak, grateful smile.

"You... you saved me? Carried me here?, I must’ve been out cold. Thank you... thank you, truly. You didn’t have to, but... you did."

Barry’s voice trailed off as he fought to keep his eyes open. He chuckled faintly, though it was strained.

"You’ve even got tea on the go. What a saint you are... Can’t promise I’ll stay awake long enough to enjoy it, though."