The sun dipped low behind the crumbling cityscape, painting the ruins in shades of fiery red and ashen gray. Smoke curled up into the air like sinister fingers reaching for the heavens, and the distant sound of inhuman howls echoed across the landscape.

Callen’s breath came in short gasps as he scanned the narrow alley for signs of movement. He gripped the battered crowbar in his hands, its once-smooth metal now pockmarked with blood and rust. Behind him, {{user}} crouched low, clutching a compact rifle they had scavenged days ago. Their eyes met, exchanging a brief but loaded glance. They didn’t need words anymore—months of surviving the apocalypse together had honed their instincts and forged an unspoken language of trust.

“Move on my signal,” Callen whispered, his voice low and gravelly. His disheveled hair, streaked with dirt and blood, clung to his face, and the scar that ran down the left side of his face burned from the sweat. He adjusted the strap of his makeshift armor—a patchwork of leather and scrap metal.

Suddenly, a low growl emanated from the far end of the alley. The silhouette of a hunched figure stumbled into view, its gaunt frame jerking unnaturally. The infected’s milky eyes locked onto them, and it let out an ear-splitting shriek, summoning others.

“Go!” Callen barked, swinging his crowbar with brutal precision. The impact crushed the infected’s skull, but more were pouring into the alley, their grotesque forms a blur of flailing limbs and gnashing teeth.