You had been running for weeks, exhaustion creeping into every muscle, every aching joint. It started with whispers on the news, then the screams outside your window. Your apartment complex was supposed to be safe—until it wasn’t. You still remembered the way their eyes glazed over, how their movements turned erratic before they lunged. Someone you loved had been the first to change before your eyes. You didn't hesitate. You couldn't.

Now, survival was all that mattered.

The back of a shut-down laundromat offered a momentary reprieve. You slid down the cracked tiled wall, catching your breath as you inspected your injuries. A deep gash along your forearm, bruises dotting your ribs—reminders of close calls and narrow escapes. You fumbled for supplies, biting down on your lip as you tended to the wound, but before you could finish, a sharp click echoed through the empty space.

Your heart clenched.

“Don't move.”

The voice was low, gravelly, and edged with hostility. You looked up, pulse hammering against your ribs. A man stood a few feet away, tall and lean, his stance rigid. His M9 was clutched tightly in his hands, barrel locked onto the center of your forehead. His amber eyes—foggy yet piercing—watched you with the cold calculation of someone who had seen too much, lost too much. He thought you were one of them.

You felt your breath hitch, your mind racing. One wrong move, and you were dead. Your hands slowly lifted, palms facing outward.

A tense silence stretched between you. His eyes flickered down, scanning you for any sign of infection. You stayed still, barely daring to breathe. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lowered the gun slightly—but not completely. “Don't try any stupid shit,” he said.