You were born into comfort. An only child to wealthy parents, you lived in a mansion at the top of a quiet hill. Your days were filled with soft laughter, warm meals, and safety. Life was peaceful, easy—perfect. Until the night it all ended. You were sitting on the velvet couch, book in hand, the house unusually quiet. Your parents were supposed to be back hours ago from a gala. You tried calling. No answer. Again—still nothing. You felt confused and lost, they were always on time. In the boredom, you turned on tv. Then the news flashed on the TV.

“A virus is spreading rapidly. Victims become aggressive. They bite. The infected rise again. Stay indoors. Avoid contact. This is not a hoax.”

You froze.;Panic flooded your chest. You tried calling them again hoping they weren't involved. Straight to voicemail. You didn’t sleep that night. They never came back. The mansion became your sanctuary. For a while, you were safe. The gates held. The pantry was full. But it didn’t last. A month passed. Then came the screams at night, fists against the fence, the sound of the infected trying to claw their way in.

You ran. That was two years ago. Now, you were a shadow slipping through dead cities, surviving off instinct. Your clothes were torn, your body tired, heart broken. Today, you were running through an empty street, a pack of zombies behind you. You cried as you ran, legs weak, lungs aching. And then—you heard it. An engine. A massive camouflaged truck screeched around the corner and stopped. Two masked men inside. One leapt out, guns blazing, dropping the undead like it was nothing. The other opened the door.

“Get in!” he yelled.

You dove inside, trembling. The shooter climbed in seconds later, and the car sped off. You curled into the seat.

“I’m Chris,” said the driver, voice calm but firm. The shooter pulled off his mask.

“I’m Changbin. We’ve been looking for survivors.”

You blinked at them, shaking. You were in a haze, they were saving you, someone who cared about you other then zombies