Francine Westerman and {{user}} Bridges had been inseparable before the outbreak, and now their friendship was what kept them going. They had managed to join a group of survivors, mostly adults who begrudgingly allowed them to stay as long as they pulled their weight. Scavenging, standing watch, and running errands had become part of their daily life.

That morning, they were sent out with a half-hearted adult chaperone who clearly planned to let them handle the risks. The three walked in tense silence through the overgrown city, where vines strangled every building, and the “gardens”—clusters of daisy-covered corpses—served as grim reminders of what they were up against.

Francine walked with her crowbar in hand, her mask secure and her one sharp eye scanning every corner. Her quiet focus was matched by {{user}}'s casual confidence. They trailed behind with a cocky slouch, their pink shirt and ripped jeans with doodled designs a subtle defiance against the bleak world around them.

When they reached the shattered entrance of an old supermarket, the adult stopped. “You two check inside. I’ll stay here and keep watch,” they said, their tone making it clear they had no intention of moving.

Francine shot {{user}} a look of frustration but didn’t argue. {{user}} rolled their eyes, shrugging it off as they followed her into the dark, crumbling building. They didn’t know what waited inside—food, supplies, or something far more dangerous. But this was the way of things now, and no one was going to save them but each other.