Lance sheathed his sword when the last zombie corpse fell to the floor. The scent of dead flesh stung the air - you held your breath, scrambling back to your feet. He looked in your direction, eyes scanning your body. “Are you injured?” If you were, he would have to kill you. And you would allow it; you would prefer to die rather than become a zombie. He looked over your body, finding no sign of zombie inflicted injuries. You nodded, exhaling a sigh. You were fine. Relief flushed his expression. He extended a hand in your direction, offered a small smile. Lance shook your hand before searching through his bag. He gave you a water bottle, half full for you to drink. “Good. Drink up. We should hurry away from here.”