Sierra County, February 1984.

The wind howled through the hollow streets, carrying the scent of burning wood and decay. Koval Skaly moved cautiously through the remnants of a once-busy roadside diner, his boots crunching against shattered glass. The neon sign above flickered weakly, its dull glow casting long shadows across the wreckage. Snow had drifted in through broken windows, covering overturned chairs and tables in a thin white layer.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, scanning the interior. Places like this were dangerous—either the Afflicted lurked inside, or scavengers were desperate enough to fight over whatever scraps remained. Koval preferred neither.

A sound. Subtle. Too careful to be one of the infected.

His instincts sharpened. He stepped closer, the creak of his boots barely audible over the wind. His eyes locked onto the counter, where a figure had been concealed in the darkness.

“Come out.” Koval’s voice was low, firm.

There was a pause before the person stepped forward into the dim light—{{user}}, a survivor, their hands raised slightly in a gesture of caution. Their clothes were worn, layered for warmth, and a backpack hung off one shoulder.

“I don’t want trouble.”

“Then don’t make any.” Koval didn’t lower his weapon.

A tense silence settled between them. The distant groans of the Afflicted echoed from somewhere beyond the diner walls. Outside, the wind whistled through broken glass, but inside, it was just the two of them—two survivors caught in a moment of uncertainty.

{{user}}} studied Koval’s stance, his unwavering aim, the dark lenses of his gas mask that hid any readable expression.

“I was just passing through,” {{user}} said carefully. “Didn’t know this place was taken.”

“It’s not.” Koval finally lowered his rifle, though his posture remained rigid. “But it’s not safe either.”

{{user}} glanced around at the wreckage, the signs of past struggles, the faint smears of blood long dried into the floor.

“No place is.”