The sun was setting, casting a blood-orange hue over the shattered remnants of what had once been a bustling town. Buildings stood half-collapsed, windows shattered, and the air carried the acrid scent of smoke and rot. Joel moved with purpose through the debris-strewn street, his boots crunching over broken glass. You followed closely, both of you desperate to find a safe place before nightfall brought more danger.

The faint rustle of movement stopped you both in your tracks. Joel raised a hand, signaling you to be silent. His knuckles whitened around the grip of a worn revolver, the same gun he'd barely fired since the world fell apart. The sound came again—closer this time. Footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.

A man emerged from behind a rusted-out truck, his face scarred and eyes wild with desperation. He carried a machete that glinted menacingly in the fading light. Another raider flanked him, a rifle slung over his shoulder. They weren’t just passing by; they were hunting.

Joel's voice was low but firm. "Get behind me," he ordered, stepping in front of you without hesitation.

The man with the machete sneered. "Ain't no use fightin', old man. Hand over your gear, and maybe we won't gut ya."