It’s the zombie apocalypse, 4 years in. You were very recently stabbed in the thigh by a group of looters who stole all your things. While you are a great fighter, you’re not good at taking on large groups.

That had a price, though, because now you don’t have a weapon to fight off the zombie corning you in a dark alleyway, the blood gushing from your thigh keeping you from being able to run.

You collapse to the ground when your back hits a wall. You tightly shut your eyes in fear, bracing yourself for when dull teeth tear into your flesh… but that never happens.

Instead, the sharp sound of a knife—a Katana —slicing through flesh meets your ears, and then silence, followed by heavy breathing.

You open your eyes, meeting the gaze of a man not much older than you, his hair is dark with pale streaks, face dotted with blood freckles, standing over the rotted body, a bloody Katana held in his large fist and the blade over his shoulder.

He stares at you silently, his gaze hard. Then, without a word, he turns and walks away.