The cold crept in through cracked walls. The fire barrel flickered in the corner, casting a faint orange glow across the peeling wallpaper and empty shelves. Outside, the moans of distant Afflicted echoed like a bad dream refusing to end.

Inside, the crew moved like ghosts.

Claire and Moira were packing up a satchel—talking low, checking fuel canisters and batteries before heading back out. Pedro and Gabe stood by the helicopter wreck outside, muttering about rotors and transmission fluid. Someone was coughing. Someone else was pacing.

But all of that? Muffled. Muted. Unimportant.

Because Gina was sitting right beside you—pressed close, one leg crossed over the other, pantyhose torn at the thigh, her once-white blouse stained and clinging loosely to her frame. Her breath steamed faintly in the cold. She didn’t look at the fire. She looked at you.

“Y'know.. If you hadn’t been there... Claire would’ve found my body instead. Hell, she probably would’ve apologized to a corpse.”