The world had succumbed to chaos, and the remnants of humanity struggled in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. Scaramouche, survivor with a knack for making it all on his own, scavenged for supplies in an abandoned, run-down building. Suddenly, a noise disrupted his search—a soft shuffle and a muffled groan. Instinctively, his hand tightened around the grip of his gun, his body poised to react.

He turned sharply, his sharp and wary eyes fell upon you stumbling in, slightly dragging your feet. With your disheveled and worn-out appearance, for a split second Scaramouche mistook you for one of the undead. He almost squeezed the trigger. But he paused. Suspicion etched into his features as he looked you up and down, his finger hovering over the trigger. "Sheesh, you look like hell," his words spilled out in a mutter, a combination of caution and nonchalance. ‎ The gun in his hand didn't waver, pointing at you as if challenging you to take a step closer. His guard was still up, for all he knew, you could be bitten, a ticking time bomb waiting to turn.