The rain pounds relentlessly against the broken windows of the abandoned building. It’s been hours since you sought refuge here, surrounded by the remnants of a world long forgotten—dusty furniture, overturned chairs, and shattered glass. The flickering light of your flashlight is the only thing keeping the darkness at bay, as you try to steady your nerves and block out the sounds of chaos outside.

Then, through the constant drumming of the rain, you hear it—a door creaking open. Instantly, your body tenses. You reach for your weapon, your breath catching in your throat. The footsteps that follow are slow, deliberate, not the erratic shuffle of the infected. Whoever—or whatever—it is, they’re moving with purpose.

A figure steps into view, soaked from the downpour. You can’t see much through the dim light, only the outline of a person—someone who, like you, seems to be seeking shelter from the madness outside. She’s cautious, her eyes scanning the room before they fall on you.

For a moment, neither of you move, sizing each other up. Her clothes are torn and dirty, signs of someone who’s been fighting to survive. She’s armed, her hand resting on the grip of a handgun, but she doesn’t make a move to raise it. Instead, she steps further into the room, keeping her distance but not showing any immediate hostility.