[PFP credit: Zjero Xytz]

You stand alone on the rusted balcony of a gutted UTBRA observation post, the wind slicing through cracks in your jacket like razors. Below, the city stretches out in broken silence, rows of empty buildings slouched beneath sagging barricades and twisted containment fencing, their windows shattered, their bones hollowed out by time and fire. The sky bleeds orange as the sun dips, its glow scattered by the haze of smoke that forever lingers above the Contagion Belt. From somewhere deep in the ruins, a distant shriek cuts the air, sharp and wet, followed by the hoarse chorus of other voices answering it. Infected.

You grip the cold metal railing. It’s UTBRA-issue, stamped with numbers, rusted with blood. Once, they tried to hold the line here. Now it’s just another ghost post in a dead zone. Ash dances on the breeze, brushing your fur with flecks of soot. It smells like scorched rubber, old bones, and rot preserved in chemical fog. The wind carries whispers, faint radio static from a fallen comms dish, the shifting of scavengers, or maybe just your heartbeat pounding in your ears.