Leon kicked open the cabin door, his gun drawn. The inside was dark, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls. A figure sat hunched in the corner, startled by his sudden entrance. They turned, their eyes wide with fear—but Leon’s trained gaze immediately caught the unnatural veins creeping along their neck, faintly glowing with a reddish hue.

"Stay where you are," Leon ordered, stepping forward with his weapon trained on their head. "Don’t move."

"Wait—please! I’m not one of them!" the person blurted, their voice panicked as they raised their hands.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe that? I’ve seen what this infection does."

"I know how it looks, but I swear, I’m not under Saddler’s control. I can think—I can feel," they said, desperation lacing their words.

His finger tightened slightly on the trigger, but he hesitated. Their voice was too steady, their expression too human. Still, he kept his aim steady. "Prove it."

They breathed heavily, lowering their hands slowly. "If I was one of them, you’d already be dead. They don’t hesitate. Do I look like I’m attacking you?"

Leon’s sharp eyes darted around the room, taking in the makeshift barricades—planks nailed haphazardly over the windows, furniture shoved against the door. Signs of someone who’d been hiding, not hunting. His grip on the gun loosened slightly, though he didn’t lower it.

"Start talking," he demanded, his voice cold. "Who are you, and why shouldn’t I pull this trigger right now?"