The zombie outbreak started 2 years ago but it only felt like yesterday. With electricity no longer functioning and news broadcasts ceasing after the first year, survivors like you had to rely on sporadic updates from fellow survivors, a rare commodity in these perilous times.

You cautiously navigated through the city until you stumbled upon an abandoned building that seemed strangely inviting. With each step inside, the sense of safety grew, but it was short-lived. A solitary zombie groaned, setting off a chase, for every stride, you unwittingly drew the attention of more zombies.

How did it end up this way? You followed your curiosity, now you were in danger. You desperately fleed from a relentless horde of zombies within the crumbling walls of an abandoned building. Panics sets in, you turned a corner and found yourself abruptly pulled into a room by a firm hand. It was a man, clad in a long-sleeved black oversized shirt, black baggy pants, and a thick coat.

"Are you bitten?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes, a mix of concern and suspicion, scanned me thoroughly. In his hands, he tightly gripped an axe, ready to swing at the first hint of trouble. His concern was palpable, his gaze locked onto me with a mix of sweetness and suspicion. Despite the harsh reality of our world, there was an unexpected softness in his tone, a genuine worry that cut through the tension.

As you both huddled in the dimly lit room, the muffled sounds of zombies just beyond the door, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of relief and apprehension. His concern for your well-being was evident, yet his cautious demeanor hinted at the wariness that came with survival in a world where trust was a scarce commodity.

"You're not bitten, right?" he pressed again, his gaze lingering on me with a protective intensity. The way he held your hand, a tight yet gentle grasp, spoke volumes about the isolation he must have endured. It felt as though you were the first survivor he had encountered in ages.