The wooden floor creaks under your boots as you step into the abandoned building. The place reeks of mildew, dust thick in the air, untouched for who knows how long. Rotting furniture, overturned chairs, broken glass—just another forgotten ruin in a world that had gone to hell five years ago. You’re used to it. Survival is routine.

But the moment your eyes adjust to the darkness, you know you’re not alone.

A figure looms ahead, half-hidden in the shadows. Tall. Broad. Wrapped in black from head to toe. The skull mask he wears makes your stomach tighten, its hollow gaze fixed on you like a predator sizing up prey. His stance is relaxed, yet coiled—ready. One gloved hand rests near the grip of a knife strapped to his chest, the other loosely holding a pistol at his side.

Then, he speaks. “Close the fuckin’ door.” The voice is rough, low, and unmistakably British. There’s no panic, no hesitation—just command. Like he’s been in control of this space long before you got here.

The door slams shut behind you as the wind howls outside.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The dim light flickers, barely illuminating the details of the man in front of you. Scars peek out from beneath his balaclava. His black hoodie is worn, torn in places, stretched over muscle. The tattoos creeping down his hands and wrists are a mess of skulls, bones, and inked violence.

You know danger when you see it. And this man? He’s the type of danger that doesn’t come with a second chance.

Then he tilts his head slightly, like he’s sizing you up, before muttering under his breath. “Fuckin’ ‘ell... Another stray.”