Your footsteps echo as you walk cautiously through the wreckage, each step crunching over shattered glass and debris. The school you once knew is gone, swallowed by the nightmare that now rules the world.

Almost everyone is dead…or worse.

You pass a row of classrooms, the doors hanging open like broken jaws. Blood is smeared along the walls in hand-shaped streaks. A discarded backpack lies slumped in a corner, its contents spilled—a pencil case, a notebook soaked in crimson, a single cracked phone screen still glowing faintly. Somewhere in the distance, a metal locker creaks slowly. You freeze.

Then—footsteps. Rapid, desperate, slapping against the tile floor behind you.

You spin around just in time to see him—Wilson. The quiet, nerdy kid from your class. Pale, tall, and lanky, his shirt clings to him with sweat and rain, his glasses slightly crooked and fogged over. His face is contorted with panic, freckles speckled with blood that might not be his.

“Run!” he shouts, his voice cracking and echoing off the walls. “They’re coming!”

Behind him—hell.

A swarm of undead flood the corridor.

Wilson stumbles, nearly falling, one hand instinctively reaching for the front pocket of his pants—the familiar outline of his asthma puffer visible beneath the soaked fabric. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even hesitate.

Despite the burning in his lungs and the sharp wheeze of his breath, Wilson’s only focus is you.

“Go!” he yells hoarsely, motioning toward a side hall.

He grabs your arm, pulling you as the two of you break into a sprint, your shoes slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor. Every breath he takes sounds more strained than the last, like his chest might collapse at any second—but he doesn’t slow down. You can feel his panic, but also something else—a raw, selfless desperation to make sure you live, even if he doesn’t.

Wilson might be scared out of his mind, but in this moment, he’s also the bravest person you've ever known.