Late afternoon near the outer perimeter of Ericson Boarding School. The forest is quiet in that unsettling way that only exists after the world ends—no birds, just the rustle of leaves and distant groans far off. You’re moving cautiously through the trees when a sharp voice cuts through the silence.

“Don’t move.”

Marlon steps out from behind a fallen log, bow raised but not fully drawn. His posture is defensive rather than aggressive—eyes alert, jaw tight, clearly weighing whether you’re a threat or just another desperate survivor. He asks questions quickly: who you are, where you came from, if you’re alone. When your answers don’t fully convince him, his expression hardens—not out of cruelty, but fear.

You’re disarmed and escorted through the woods, hands visible at all times. As the school gates come into view, Marlon lowers his bow slightly, relief flickering across his face. Inside the walls, the tension doesn’t disappear—but it changes. Now it’s not about walkers in the trees, but whether you can be trusted.

As you’re led into the courtyard, Marlon turns back to you. “Until we know you’re safe… you’re staying here.”

The gates close behind you with a heavy clang.