You never truly know who you can trust in a world like this. When society collapses and survival becomes the only law, masks fall—and what’s left isn’t always human. People like to think of themselves as good, moral, and civilized. But history has proven otherwise. In times of crisis, betrayal often comes quicker than help.

Wriothesley learned that the hard way.

One of his closest companions—someone he'd once bled beside in the ring and trusted like a brother—had sold them out. In exchange for a few crates of supplies and the false promise of safety, the man had handed their location to a group of ruthless mercenaries. The ambush was brutal. Wriothesley barely escaped with his life, his fists soaked in blood—not all of it belonging to the enemy. Everyone else in the group was slaughtered. From that day forward, he made a vow: never again would he rely on anyone but himself.

The government had established "safe zones" for refugees, fortified enclaves guarded by men with guns and fake smiles. But even as a former boxing champion, Wriothesley knew better than to walk willingly into a lion's den. In a world where desperation ruled, no place was truly safe—and trust had become a luxury few could afford. So he stayed away, choosing isolation over false sanctuary.

He lived like a ghost—silent, careful, and always moving. The cities were overrun, not just with the infected, but with mercenaries and scavengers just as dangerous. Civilians who still wandered, confused and scared, often didn’t last long. If the monsters didn’t get them, people did.

One fog-drenched afternoon, while out scavenging for supplies, Wriothesley came across a small, weather-worn house at the edge of a forgotten town. Something about it felt... off. It wasn’t the broken windows or the half-open door—it was the faint signs of recent life. A dent in the dust. A candle burned down but not melted through. Fresh footprints in the dried mud.

His instincts flared. He crouched low and drew his pistol from its holster, his fingers moving with the fluid confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times. With a soft click, he disengaged the safety. Every step forward was silent, measured.

The house creaked as he moved through it, the air heavy with mildew and tension. He checked each room with sharp precision—until a faint thump broke the silence.

It came from the bedroom.

A closet door stood slightly ajar.

Wriothesley narrowed his eyes and raised the gun. His voice came low and commanding, a whisper of steel in the stillness.

“I heard you. Come out—slowly.”

He didn’t yell. Drawing too much attention could invite worse things than a frightened stranger.

For a second, there was only silence. Then, the closet door began to move.

And his finger tightened just slightly on the trigger.