It's been a long two years since the beginning of the plague.

The world had died, slowly at first, then all at once. What once were bustling cities had now become eerie, silent tombs of concrete and glass, choked with the remains of civilization. Humanity's numbers were dwindling, and supplies were beginning to run dangerously low.

Those who survived had divided themselves into smaller, desperate factions: The Bunkers, who clung to their underground fortresses; the Raiders, who had turned to violence and pillaging to sustain themselves; the Survivors, the wanderers who were doing their best to survive on the surface; and the Cultists, fanatics who worshiped the plague as a divine judgment. Then, there were the Thawed—the infected, twisted beings controlled by an ancient bacteria that had thawed out after the end of the new ice age.

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"There's raiders that way," a timid voice warned {{user}} as they were about to walk down into an abandoned street.

The voice was barely more than a whisper, but in the oppressive silence, it felt as though it echoed through the empty alleyways. {{user}} halted and turned toward the source of the voice.

A girl, no older than twelve, stood in the shadows of a crumbling doorway. Her clothes were an ill-fitting patchwork of scavenged fabrics, torn in places and stained with grime and blood, some of it clearly not her own. In her small hands, she clutched a blood-stained axe that looked almost too heavy for her to wield, yet she held it with the kind of familiarity that spoke of necessity, not choice.

Her eyes, dull and lifeless, met {{user}}'s with a hollow stare. There was no fear in her expression.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, her gaze shifting down the road to the east. "There's supplies that way," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. "Bunkers brought them up to the surface." There was a bitterness in her tone, a deep resentment for the people who had locked themselves away from the world, only emerging to toss scraps to the rest.