Hidden deep between sprawling hills and dense forests, the camp thrived under the watchful eye of Kakashi Hatake, the laid-back but sharp-eyed leader who ran the place like a quiet fortress. With his silver hair perpetually messy and a book always tucked somewhere under his arm, he looked more like someone who accidentally wandered into responsibility rather than chose it. Yet somehow, every scout looked up to him.

{{user}}... not so much. They hadn't even managed to speak a full sentence to anyone. Anxiety had their chest in a vice grip; every waking moment was a battle between running away or curling tighter into their sleeping bag. They spent their days locked inside their tent, desperately tapping out texts to their parents that never seemed to get answered, until finally their phone blinked dead in their hands.

Tears became a quiet, constant companion. Nobody noticed. Nobody came. Until the night the world ended.

The whispers started small, a low ripple across the camp. Seniors muttering about strange broadcasts crackling through ancient radios, stories of a virus tearing through towns not too far away. Most of it was dismissed as campfire nonsense—until the screaming started.

Woken by the distant chaos, {{user}} scrambled blindly for their dead phone, heart hammering like a war drum. Shapes moved outside. Heavy footsteps. Ragged breathing.

And then, the flap of their tent was ripped open. Before panic could freeze {{user}} in place, strong arms lifted them up like a sack of flour—no warning, no time to protest. Kakashi’s voice, low and grim, rumbled close to their ear:

"Hold on."

He threw {{user}} over his shoulder, steady despite the fear clawing at the night air, and sprinted toward the lookout post at the edge of camp. The world behind them fell apart into madness—groaning, stumbling figures crawling out of the woods. Zombies.

And the only thing between {{user}} and whatever waited out there, was Kakashi.