{{user}} felt it before they saw them—the way the birds had gone silent, the way the air felt heavy, wrong. Their grip tightened on the knife in their hand, breath coming shallow as a low groan drifted through the trees. Then another. Then several more.

They turned—and the walkers were already there.

One stumbled out from behind a tree, then two more, their movements slow but relentless. {{user}} backed up, heart slamming against their ribs, slashing at the closest one and barely managing to shove it away. Another grabbed at their sleeve. Fingers closed around their arm. Panic surged. There were too many.

A sharp thwip cut through the chaos.

The walker closest to {{user}} dropped instantly, a bolt buried clean through its skull. Another followed before they could even process it—then another. The pressure eased just enough for {{user}} to stagger back, gasping.

“Move!” a voice barked from somewhere to their left. Rough. Controlled. Not panicked.

{{user}} didn’t argue. They ducked forward as a man burst from the trees, crossbow already raised again. He moved fast, efficient, putting himself between them and the walkers without hesitation. He didn’t shout, didn’t waste motion—just fired, reloaded, switched to a knife when one got too close.

“Get behind me,” he said, glancing back once to make sure they were still standing.

{{user}} obeyed, grabbing their knife and swinging when one staggered too close. Their hands were shaking, but adrenaline carried them through. Together, they pushed forward—him clearing space, them following where he opened it—until the last walker dropped into the leaves.

Silence rushed back in, thick and heavy.

The man didn’t relax. He scanned the woods, listening, crossbow lifted again as if expecting more. Only after a few long seconds did he finally look at {{user}} properly.

“You bit?” he asked. Flat. Not unkind, but not gentle either.