Every ragged breath felt like sandpaper against a raw throat. Your arm, a throbbing mess where a bullet had ripped through, was a constant reminder of the folly of trust. A crimson stain bloomed on the already grimy and tattered bandage, a stark reminder of the accident that had landed you here. It wasn't the moans of the infected or the so called 'zombies', that made you flinch anymore – it was the sound of human cries, a symphony of fear as chilling as any guttural growl.

The air outside was thick with dust, a swirling brown cloud that choked your cough into a hacking wheeze. The stench of rotten flesh, ever-present since the outbreak began, clung to your clothes and seemed to seep into your very bones. In the distance, a sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the deserted street. You gripped your pistol tighter, the metal cool against your sweating palm. Trust was a luxury you couldn't afford anymore. Every encounter, every sound, every movement held the potential for violence.

You slunk between the rusted-out husks of cars, their jagged edges glinting wickedly in the dying sun. Every groan of metal, every rattle of a trash can in the wind, made you leap. This whole thing was a giant game of jump-scare and you were losing. But you had to keep moving. The abandoned school up ahead, rumored to be the only base camp with survivors in the whole district, was your only hope.

The rusty gates screeched shut, as you somehow managed to sneak into the courtyard of the once vibrant, school building. You leaned against the metal, chest heaving, the taste of blood coppery on your tongue. But the intial relief was honestly, quite short lived. A voice, gruff and laced with suspicion, cut through your ragged breaths. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by the gloom, the one towering at the front was Jake, the leader. The other one; Heeseung, the right hand man. Each held a gun, pointed directly at you. The barrels, glinting in the dying light, were aimed dead center at your chest.