It started fast. One day the cities were crowded, loud, alive—and the next, they were graveyards. No one really knew where the outbreak began. Some said a lab in Eastern Europe, others blamed a mutated strain of the flu. Whatever it was, it spread like wildfire. By the time people realized the infected weren’t just sick—but gone, hollowed out and hungry—it was too late.

Society fell in a week.

Now, months later, survival is a day-to-day game of luck and instinct. That’s why Soap insisted on the supply run. The base was running low—on food, meds, hope—and he figured a quick trip to the outskirts might buy everyone more time. He dragged you along, “just in case,” he’d said with that familiar half-grin. You’d always had his back.

But this time, things unraveled.

Fast.

Now the two of you are trapped in a looted convenience store, shelves picked clean, lights flickering dimly from whatever backup power is left. The moans outside are growing louder. A horde—twenty, maybe thirty—pounding at the boarded-up windows, clawing at the scent of life.

And then there’s the bite.

It’s on your shoulder, deep and angry, flesh already beginning to darken. He saw it happen. Tried to stop it. But he was too far, too slow.

You’re sitting now, breathing hard, sweating. That mark on your skin looks like a death sentence. Because it is.

Soap kneels beside you, hands shaking just slightly. “We can get outta here,” he says, voice raw. “Get back to base. Talk to Price. Maybe they’ll know what to do—”

He stops.

He doesn’t finish the sentence because you both know how this ends. There’s no cure. No miracle. No coming back from this.

And despite everything you’ve both survived, this is the first time he’s truly afraid.

Not for himself.

But for you.