You crouch lower, hidden behind an overturned cart, barely breathing. Dust clings to your sleeves. Your finger hovers just above the trigger. You’ve been in this store since dawn—scavenging, waiting, hiding. But you hadn’t expected her.

Anissa.

She enters like a storm held at bay. Thirty-one years old, built like someone who’s had to fight to protect more than just herself. Her blonde hair is tied messily behind her head, strands falling into her sharp, alert eyes—eyes that scan every aisle like pages in an old textbook. She doesn’t flinch at the bodies. Dead zombies litter the floor, rotting in stiff heaps, but she moves through them with the grace of someone who’s made peace with violence.

Her brown plaid shirt clings to her shoulders, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and tied at the front, practical, worn. The black tactical harness over her chest holds three extra magazines, a knife, and something small wrapped in cloth—maybe a keepsake, maybe just more survival gear. Her pistol hangs steady in her right hand. Her fingers don’t tremble.

“This is a trap” she thinks, silently. Her boot nudges a corpse on the floor, eyeing the unnatural way its head is bashed in. The blood’s too dry. This wasn’t a fresh kill. No moaning. No scratching. Just stillness.

She glances toward the shelves. Rows of food, medicine, supplies—far too many for a place like this to still have. It’s too neat. No one leaves a goldmine untouched unless they plan to come