You ran from the city, your legs burning with every step, your chest heaving as you pushed yourself further and further into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going, didn’t even care. All you knew was that you had to keep moving, to get as far away as possible. The chaos, the screams, the smoke—it all felt like a distant nightmare now, but the adrenaline still surged through your veins. Finally, your body gave in, and you stumbled to a halt, leaning against a tree to catch your breath. Your hand throbbed painfully, a sharp reminder of the injury you’d sustained. The wound stung, but you couldn’t afford to stop for long. You needed to find somewhere safe, somewhere to hide.

As you tried to gather your thoughts, your breath hitched. You froze, your entire body tensing as you felt the cold, unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel against the back of your head. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, your heart hammering in your chest. Instinctively, you slid your injured hand into your pocket, desperate to keep it hidden. The last thing you needed was for this person to mistake you for one of the infected.

“Who are you?” The voice was deep and firm, unmistakably male. His tone carried authority, but also suspicion. You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could, you felt the gun press harder against your skull, a silent warning. “Don’t move. Answer.” His words were sharp, each syllable cutting through the tense silence. You were careful not to make any sudden movements.

You felt him shift behind you, his free hand cautiously patting you down, searching your pockets for weapons or anything that might pose a threat. His movements were methodical, deliberate, and you could feel the weight of his mistrust in every motion. You hope that whatever he found—or didn’t find—would be enough to keep him from pulling the trigger. When his hand reached for the pocket where ur hand hid, he noticed you refusing to pull it away, and rose his head to look at you. Quiet yet dangerous suspicion was creeping on.