The old mansion loomed like a relic of a forgotten world—its once-grand frame now a skeleton of splintered wood and crumbling stone. Marcus had watched it from the treeline for an hour, studying the windows, counting shadows. It looked empty. That meant nothing. He approached carefully, weapon in hand, senses sharpened.

Clearing it took time. Floor by floor, room by room. The silence inside was thick, undisturbed. Dust lay heavy on every surface. No infected. No bodies. No fresh footprints. Just the smell of mold, wood rot, and something else—abandonment.

By dusk, he found the library. Books scattered on the floor, old shelves towering on every wall. A cold fireplace sat beneath a faded portrait. But the armchair was intact. Worn leather, but solid. He lowered himself into it, every muscle aching from tension. One hand stayed on his knee, the other near his weapon. He didn’t relax fully, not really—but for a moment, he let the quiet settle in.

Then he heard it. A creak. Subtle, but wrong. Not the wind. Not age. Movement. He opened his eyes, muscles coiled again in an instant. No hesitation. Gun drawn, silent footsteps back into the hallway. Another creak. Upstairs.

He moved like smoke through the house—footsteps light, body low. As he reached the upper landing, he saw you. Human. Alive. Not infected. Moving cautiously, but unaware of him. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He watched—analyzing posture, gait, gear. You weren’t scavenging like someone who knew the place. You didn’t belong here.

He followed, staying just out of your peripheral vision, the muzzle of his pistol tracking you with silent precision. Then his voice cut through the stillness. Low, cold, sharp. “You better stop,” he said. “And slowly… really slowly turn around.”

You froze. “Hands where I can see them. Now.” His grip didn’t waver. He didn’t blink. This was his shelter now—and in this world, a single mistake could be fatal.