Cold rain lashed against the rusty lining of the truck, turning the ground under Ellie's feet into a bloody mess. She froze, her fingers reflexively gripping the handle of the Butterfly knife. Behind the wheel, in a puddle of mud and gasoline, a shepherd dog struggled in agony — a broken spine, a slit stomach, blue loops of intestines. The animal wheezed, blowing bloody bubbles. His bleary eyes darted between Ellie and {{user}}.

{{user}} abruptly jerked her hand to the holster, her fingers closed on the Glock handle: — Let me finish her off. One shot in the forehead — and...

Ellie's movement was abrupt but deliberate.
She grabbed {{user}}'s hand just above the wrist, squeezing so hard that the bones cracked. The cold metal of the gun pressed into her ribs.
— A bullet is a noise. The noise is the clackers. Antibiotics are more important than your pity," her voice sounded harsh, but without malice, just a fact.

Rain lashed at the rust as Ellie darted toward the dog—not with a jerk, but with a smooth glide, as if the knife were an extension of her hand. Her left palm clamped the muzzle, thumb driving under the jaw until a stifled gurgle mixed with the crunch of bone. She forced the dog’s head into the mud, exposing the neck where a jugular vein pulsed beneath soaked fur.

Her right arm arced upward—the "Butterfly" knife glinted dully through the downpour. The blade entered below the left ear, shearing skin, muscle, trachea... a single motion slicing to the right carotid artery. Cartilage cracked like crushed walnuts.

An arterial jet punched upward—hot, rhythmic spurts. The first spray soaked Ellie’s chest, saturating her camo in sticky ruby. The second hit her chin, mingling with rain as pink-streaked rivulets snaked down her jacket. Blood squelched under boots, staining the mud wine-dark. The dog’s body arched backward—spine bowing unnaturally, claws scraping gravel. Hind legs convulsed to its dying heartbeat: one-two-three—kicking clods of dirt. Five seconds later, it slumped. The head lolled, revealing the butchered throat—a two-finger-wide gash exposing shattered vertebrae and a severed windpipe like a ruptured hose.

Ellie didn’t flinch. She wiped the blade on her thigh, leaving a streak of fresh blood over dried grime.

"Save bullets for what’s worse."* She didn’t look at {{user}}, eyes locked on the clinic’s blackened doorway. "We’ll need gunfire in there."

{{user}} nodded silently, holstering her weapon. Her face stayed stone, but understanding flickered in her eyes.

Inside the clinic, the air hung thick with the cloying stench of rot and spores—visible as toxic dust in flashlight beams. Ellie adjusted her respirator, sealing it tighter. Beside her, {{user}} did the same. Walls, ceiling, even shattered furniture swam with pulsing blue-green cords of Cordyceps.

Ellie advanced, her flashlight carving shadows that moved on the ceiling. Stalkers. Their fungal growths glowed like rotten wood.
"Three hostiles. Right of the vent," {{user}} hissed, knuckles white on her combat knife.

They edged past the demolished reception desk, boots crunching glass. A Stalker dropped two meters from {{user}}—angular, slime-slicked, mandibles clicking. {{user}} swung her blade, but Ellie moved faster. She drove her knife into the base of the creature’s skull. A wet crunch. Black fluid splattered the tiles. The body crumpled soundlessly as Ellie caught its weight.

"Thanks,"* {{user}} muttered, her trembling hand betraying fury, not fear.
"Focus better," Ellie snapped, gaze slicing toward the pharmacy’s blood-red cross. Beyond it, absolute darkness. And from within...
Knock-knock-knock. ...slow, rhythmic rapping, like knuckles on wood.

"Clicker,"* Ellie crouched, knuckles whitening on her knife. *"Draw your Glock. Fire only on my mark."