Victor crouched low, the faint rustling of leaves beneath his boots the only sound in the cold, rain soaked forest. His breath came in quiet, controlled gasps, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him like a stone in his chest. Behind him, the others shifted restlessly, their eyes gleaming with hunger, the same dark hunger that had driven them this far.

The world had turned to shit, with the walkers, but the people as well. No one to trust, the old rules long gone. Now, it was about survival—whatever it took. The group he led wasn’t large, but they were efficient. Robbing, scavenging, killing when necessary. It was a brutal existence, but it was one that kept them breathing.

Tonight, they had found something valuable: a small campfire glowing weakly in the distance, the smell of cooking meat carrying through the trees. There were people there. Not a lot.

Victor saw Winston giving a single, silent signal, and the group moved, shadows blending into the darkness as they prepared to strike. The fire flickered, unaware of the predators closing in. And Victor? His mind was already on what came next: the spoils, the weapons, the supplies. It was a simple equation—others had what he needed, and in the end, only the ruthless survived.