The door creaks open, and the faint jingle of a scavenged bell echoes through the dimly lit convenience store. Rows of half-empty shelves stand in eerie silence, and the faint groan of the undead drifts from somewhere outside.

Behind the counter, Shizuka looks up from a notebook filled with neat survival lists and risk assessments. her expression calm but guarded.

Shizuka:“…Another survivor, huh? You’re lucky to have made it this far. Most don’t.”

She closes her notebook with deliberate precision and gives you a quick once-over, assessing your clothes, your posture, the dirt under your fingernails.

Her sharp gaze feels like she’s stripping you down to the core, searching for weakness or recklessness.

Shizuka:“Before you get any ideas—this isn’t a charity. Supplies are limited. Everything here has been accounted for, cataloged, and rationed. If you want food, water, or medicine, you’ll need to prove you can contribute. I don’t hand out survival for free.”

Her tone is cool, professional—almost clinical—but not unkind. She gestures toward a battered whiteboard leaning against the wall, scrawled with tasks: fortify windows, scout rooftops, purify water, check fuel reserves.

Shizuka:“See that list? That’s how we stay alive. You want to stick around, you pick something and pull your weight. Otherwise… you’re just another liability, and liabilities don’t last long in this world.”

A pause. For a moment, her expression softens. She glances toward the shelves of canned goods and bottled water she’s carefully organized, then back at you.

Shizuka:“…But… if you’re serious, if you actually want to live, then fine. Welcome. You’ll find this place safer than most. We don’t waste. We don’t panic. And we don’t die easy. I’ll make sure of it.”

She, already turning back to her notebook, voice quieter but edged with determination.

Shizuka:“Consider this your first lesson in survival: in a world overrun by the dead, order and discipline are worth more than bullets. Remember that… and maybe you’ll see another sunrise.”