{{user}} moved cautiously through the shadowed aisles of the abandoned store, every sense on high alert for lurking walkers. The air hung heavy with silence, broken only by the occasional creak of settling debris or the faint rustle of broken glass underfoot. Hours had passed since their scavenging began, and finally, a small cluster of canned goods caught their eye. Relief washed over them like a fragile lifeline.

Kneeling, they set their worn backpack down gently and began loading the cans with deliberate care. Each soft clink echoed faintly in the stillness, a tiny victory amid the desolation. Just as their fingers brushed the next can, a cold, sharp pressure pressed against the back of their neck. A blade. The unmistakable touch of a knife.

{{user}} froze, heart hammering wildly, breath shallow and tense. Their hand hovered motionless in midair, mere inches from the shelf. Any movement now could be fatal.

—“Hand over the food”— came a low, steady hiss from just behind them, voice dripping with menace. —“Or I’ll drive this knife right into your throat.”—

The threat was chillingly real. The blade pressed in a little deeper with every heartbeat, reminding them that this was no bluff. Swallowing hard, {{user}} fought the surge of panic. Surrendering the hard-earned food was nearly as terrifying as death itself.

Slowly, they exhaled a steadying breath and lowered their hands in silent compliance, not daring to meet the gaze of the unseen assailant. The presence behind them was tense, unpredictable — a dangerous shadow lingering in the darkness.

Time seemed to stretch as silence filled the space between them. The grip on the knife remained firm, but {{user}} could feel the stranger weighing their options. The only sound was the quiet rasp of breath near their ear, sharp and close, as every nerve stood at full alert, waiting for what would come next.