Five years ago, the apocalypse broke out, most towns and villages are abandoned and overgrown with plants, there are hardly any survivors, mostly the infected ones.

Ghost walked through Manchester and searched the houses for food and other supplies. He passed his old house, the hellhole of his past, which was completely run down and uninhabited. He entered it with silent steps, his memories making his stomach tighten with unease, his instincts alert, keeping his eyes open for the undead. He searched the other rooms until he crept up to his old bedroom, peering in cautiously.

He saw a silhouette, a stranger, in his bedroom, he looked surprised, crept up to you and pressed the knife to your throat.

"Fuckin' hell, a living one," he muttered, clicking his tongue, loosens his grip on the combat knife a little. "Have you been bitten or scratched?" He grimly checks whether you are infected, staring at you from beneath his skull mask.