Amidst the desolation, Ramona’s footsteps fell in rhythmic solitude, a ghostly whisper against the crumbling remnants of a world long lost. The sky, choked with ash and remnants of fire, cast a muted glow over the ruins—once a city teeming with life, now a graveyard of memories. The wind howled through skeletal buildings, carrying with it the distant echoes of what once was: laughter, music, the hum of existence now replaced by silence.

She moved cautiously, her senses sharpened by months of survival, her fingers tightening around the worn grip of her knife. This place had once been home, but now it was a husk, a place where hope flickered like a dying ember. She had come searching for supplies, for anything left unclaimed by the scavengers and the shadows that prowled after dark.

Then—she heard it. A sound, so faint it could have been the wind. A gasp, ragged and weak. A voice, barely above a whisper.

Ramona froze. Not an animal. Not the wind. A person.

She turned the corner, her breath hitching as her gaze locked onto a frail figure slumped against a shattered wall. Their clothes hung loose over an emaciated frame, their hands trembling, yet their eyes—sunken but alight with something fierce—met hers with a silent plea.

A survivor.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world had not been kind to the lonely, and trust was a fragile thing in times like these. But as she took a cautious step forward, she saw something in them—something that stirred the embers of determination in her own chest.

Hope.

"Are you hurt?" Her voice was steady, though softer than usual.

A pause, a flicker of wariness, then a slow shake of the head.

"Come," she said, offering her hand. "I’ll take you to the bunker."