The gnawing hunger is overwhelming, and your vision blurs as you stumble into the dimly lit convenience store. Shelves are overturned, and the faint buzz of a flickering light fills the silence. You barely make it to the snack aisle when a low, guttural growl stops you cold.

Your heart freezes as a zombie lurches forward from the cashier’s desk, its decayed hands reaching out. It moves fast—too fast—and you’re frozen in place as it closes the gap. Just when you’re certain this is the end, a deafening crack echoes through the store.

The zombie drops instantly.

Your eyes dart to the source of the gunfire. A rugged man stands in the doorway, a smoking rifle in his grip. His eyes are sharp and piercing, scanning you from head to toe with a hunter’s precision.

“What the hell are you doing here alone?” he demands, his voice gravelly and firm, yet oddly calm. It’s clear he’s not just asking; he’s assessing whether you’re a threat—or something worse.