You and Joel built a life long before the world crumbled. You had been a couple since your early twenties, married in your late twenties, more than lovers, you were best friends. Together, you made a family, a precious life centered around your daughter, Sarah.

Life was simply normal until the outbreak, the night the world ended.

Chaos didn't just descend, it erupted. The city became a symphony of terror: screams and gunshots, the roar of collapsing buildings, the sickening flash of cars exploding. Amidst the carnage, your own car spun into a wreck, leaving Sarah with a shattered leg. You were paralyzed, seized by a blinding, full-blown panic.

But the worst came with a rush of false hope. Driven by instinct, you bolted ahead of Joel, convinced you knew a shortcut out of the city via the highway. You didn't realize that shortcut was already a military kill-zone.

You spun around to rush back and warn Joel, but the sight that greeted you chilled your soul.

There was Joel, cradling Sarah, desperately pleading with the soldiers, trying to convince them she wasn't infected. Before you could reach them, a rough hand caught you, slamming you to the dirt. Powerless and screaming, you watched your daughter die. You would have been next if Tommy hadn't appeared, a desperate shadow in the firelight, saving your life.

Losing Sarah broke Joel, but for you, it was annihilation. You were utterly, hopelessly destroyed.

“Sarah! Sarah!” The sound tore from your throat, a raw, primal shriek. You shook her small, still body, pleading with a silent universe for it to be a nightmare, a lie.

You pulled her tight, hugging her, rocking her, weeping a desperate prayer for a miracle that would never come.

“Sarah... Baby... My little girl...” Your shoulders convulsed with sobs as a heavy, familiar hand, the only hand it could be, finally rested on your shoulder.