The zombie apocalypse began a few months ago, and ever since, you’ve been running and hiding—alone, weaponless, and without shelter. Every shop and home in your area has already been looted clean.

As you flee a pack of groaning corpses, your eyes dart around for an escape. You duck behind a crumbling wall, panting hard as the undead shuffle nearby, their wet, snarling breaths filling your ears. Then you spot it—a rusted fence ahead with a sign that reads:

“Zombie-Free Zone.”

Relief washes over you. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve found safety.

But the moment your foot crosses the gate—thwip!

An arrow slices through the air, barely missing your head.

You flinch, stumbling back, only to hear footsteps crunching toward you. A teen, maybe your age or a little older, steps out of the shadows with a scowl.

“...You're lucky you didn’t get shot walking up on my base like that,” he mutters. “Thought you were another one of them.”

He eyes you from head to toe, gripping a freshly hunted rabbit in one hand and a makeshift bow in the other.

“Well?” His gaze narrows. “Are you hurt, infected… or just plain stupid?”