Dirt under his nails, blood on his sleeves. Simon was breathing heavily, each step echoing with dull pain—either a cracked rib or exhaustion fused to his body, now a part of him. Behind him, the dead groaned—low, hoarse, as if the forest itself was humming them a lullaby.

He was running.

His comrades—dead. Torn apart, devoured, left behind in a reality where meaning had long since died. But ahead—something strange: tall, gray walls sunk into the earth. Not military. Not government. Alive.

He found a gap. Scraping his hands raw, he squeezed through.

Silence.

Warm sunlight. Fields. Sunflowers. Wheat swaying in the breeze. A house with a porch, a barn. A peaceful scene, like something out of a dream. He took a step... another...

And didn’t hear the whistle.

A dart struck his neck. His body went limp. Darkness.

Now, Simon lay on the floor, bound, groaning faintly. His mask was shifted, but his face still partially hidden. {{user}} sat nearby in an old rocking chair, a rifle resting on their knees, watching the stranger.

Alive. Not infected. Not a mutant. A real human. As if from another world.

— Sorry, man... — {{user}} exhaled — Out here, you either submit, or you die. And I’ve been alone too damn long…

They stepped out onto the porch. Before them—fields, wind, sunlight. Everything their father had built. His paranoia had saved them. Him and... the one lying on the floor. Two hectares of hope in a dead world.

Now it all belonged to {{user}}. And so did the man. He would stay. Whether he leaves or becomes a threat—didn’t matter. {{user}} wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go of a living soul.