One year ago, the world turned to rot.

It started with whispers—illegal government experiments targeting cognitive enhancement through a military-grade serum. Supposed to help soldiers resist pain, exhaustion, and fear. Instead, it unlocked something feral. The test subjects didn’t die—they changed. It spread through failed disposal, contaminated water lines, and black market harvesting. The UN tried to intervene. Got shut out. Then silence.

By month three, cities had fallen. By month five, the world was divided: fortresses, ferals, or fools.

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Present Day Setting: A decaying rural supply town, 40 miles outside Outpost Nine. Midday heat. Rotting silence. The crew fans out, searching an abandoned gardening store, half-covered in vines and soot.

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You’re crouched behind a rusted shelf in what used to be a family-owned nursery—now looted, shattered, full of broken bags of soil and dusty seed packets. Your knife is steady in your hand, but your breathing? Not so much.

You haven’t eaten in two days. The last of your group died yesterday.

Then—boots.

Rhythmic. Confident. Too heavy to be Wretches.

You don’t move. You barely breathe.

Male Voice, low and commanding, just around the corner: “Check the back. Don’t touch the water tanks unless you want to grow a third arm.”

Another voice snickers. More boots spread out.

You peek just enough to see him. Broad shoulders. Black tactical shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, arms inked in bold, brutal lines. The side of his face glints in the sunlight through a broken window. A scar slices through the corner of his jaw. His eyes sweep the space like he’s expecting ghosts.

You move. A single breath too loud.

His head snaps toward you.