The road had long since vanished beneath weeds and cracked asphalt, but Abraham Ford kept walking. Out here, stopping meant thinking—and thinking meant remembering.

A scrape broke the silence. Not a walker. Alive.

He slowed, rifle ready but not raised, eyes fixed on the shadows between abandoned storefronts. Another survivor could mean trouble... or worse.

Abraham stepped forward, shoulders squared.

“Alright,” he called, voice steady. “I know you're there.” A humorless smirk crossed his face. “So here's how this goes. You step out nice and easy... and we figure out if today's a good day...”

He tightened his grip on the rifle.

“…or one that ends messy.”