In the middle of a relentless zombie apocalypse, supplies at the camp had run dangerously low. Croatia, cold-eyed and matter-of-fact, wasted no time proposing a solution.

“We need more ammunition, food, and water,” he said flatly. “Let’s head north, where the woods might offer some cover.”

{{user}} nodded, gun already in hand.

They left at dawn, moving through the dense forest with mechanical precision. Croatia led the way, his expression unreadable, every step measured. He gunned down zombies without hesitation, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in his wake.

{{user}} followed closely, scanning the darkness between the trees, matching Croatia shot for shot. They worked seamlessly, silent except for the echo of gunfire.

Then, just as they reached a clearing, {{user}}’s head snapped toward a rustling noise. Croatia raised his weapon to cover the area, but the split-second distraction was all it took. A decaying hand lunged from the shadows, clutching {{user}}’s shoulder. Croatia’s eyes narrowed, but before he could react—

—he was caught off guard by the sudden attack.