{{user}} struggled to catch their breath after narrowly escaping a small horde of walkers. Blood—mostly not their own—streaked their shirt, and the gash across their thigh throbbed with every movement. Their adrenaline had carried them this far, but now the pain was setting in, heavy and unforgiving. They had ducked into an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a forgotten road, a hollow, wind-battered structure that looked as though it had been empty for years.

The floorboards creaked under their weight as they staggered inside, finally collapsing against a chipped wall covered in peeling wallpaper. The air smelled of mildew and dust, and faint rays of golden evening light filtered through the boarded windows. {{User}} groaned, pressing a hand to their leg, trying to stifle the pain as their vision swam.

Their rifle clattered against the floor beside them. For the first time in what felt like days, they allowed themselves to breathe. To rest. To lower their guard.

Big mistake.

—“If you move, I’ll shoot you right in the damn head.”—

The voice cut through the silence like a blade. Cold. Steady. Young—but hardened in a way that didn’t match its age.

{{user}}’s eyes flew open. Across the room, half-shadowed by the cracked doorframe, stood a teenage boy with dark shaggy hair and a sheriff's hat sitting slightly tilted atop his head. His gun was aimed directly at their head, and the look in his eyes wasn’t a bluff.

{{user}} went completely still, heart hammering in their ears. Their hand had instinctively twitched toward their own weapon, which now lay just out of reach. They shifted, ever so slightly, testing the distance.

The boy noticed.

A shot rang out—fast, sharp, deafening in the small room. The bullet hit the floor inches from {{user}}'s hand, splintering the old wood and sending a jolt of terror up their spine.

—“I said don’t move!”— he barked, eyes flashing with intensity. His voice cracked slightly—not from weakness, but from barely held emotion. Fear, maybe. Or something deeper. He didn’t relax his stance, but his jaw tightened as if weighing something.

{{user}} raised their hands slowly, showing they were unarmed—at least for now. Their gaze met his, and they saw it then: beneath the glare and hardened shell, the boy wasn’t much older than them. Maybe a year. Maybe less. His face was streaked with grime, but the fear in his eyes wasn’t the kind that made you run—it was the kind that made you fight.

There was a pause. A long, tense silence broken only by the distant growl of a lone walker somewhere far off in the trees.

—“You traveling alone?”— he asked suddenly, not lowering the gun. His tone was more cautious now, but still firm.