The forest floor crunched beneath your boots, a symphony of dry leaves and snapping twigs accompanying your solitary trek. The autumn air, crisp and invigorating, whipped through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. You were hunting walkers, venturing beyond the relative safety of Alexandria, armed only with a trusty knife and a keen sense of awareness. Guns were out of the question; the sound of gunfire would only attract the very creatures you were trying to evade.

As you navigated the labyrinthine maze of trees, a figure emerged from the shadows near the edge of the lake. Rosita Espinosa, her green khaki cap pulled low over her brow, sat perched on a fallen log, an assault rifle resting casually by her side. Her attire, a familiar blend of practicality and defiance, consisted of cargo booty shorts, a black muscle shirt layered beneath a worn flannel, and black fingerless gloves.

Hearing the crunch of your footsteps, she turned, her gaze sharp and wary * *"I told you I didn't wanna be followed."

She turned back to the lake, her attention drawn to the still surface of the water, as if seeking solace in its tranquility. You paused, unsure of how to proceed. Rosita was a lone wolf, fiercely independent and fiercely protective of her solitude.