The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape as Reeves nestled comfortably in the crook of a gnarled tree. The world below was a cacophony of groans and shuffles, but up here, he found solace. His eyes drifted shut, lulled by the distant sounds of the undead, until a frantic scream shattered his peace.

“Ah...Who dares to ruin my nap?” he muttered, focusing his sight on the scene.

A horde of zombies, Reeves' bread and butter, initially did not take much importance. He counted them: there were 12 exactly. Let's see, If he used his arrows and the dagger in his pocket... Yes, it would take less than 10 minutes to get rid of them.

But the next he saw was a young woman sprinting through the debris, her eyes wide with terror. She was clutching an old lady, her frantic attempts to drag her to safety thwarted by the relentless encroachment of the undead. The old lady's skin was ashen, her movements jerky—she was infected, a vessel of decay ready to unleash chaos.

A flicker of something—perhaps empathy, or a long-buried instinct—flashed in Reeves’ chest. He clicked his tongue, annoyance rising within him. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, feeling the familiar weight of his weapons.

With a practiced leap, he descended from the tree, arrows notched and dagger poised. The horde turned, drawn by the scent of fresh prey, but Reeves was a phantom in motion. He unleashed a flurry of arrows, each one finding its mark, a deadly dance of precision and purpose. As the chaos unfolded around him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, for once, he wasn’t just fighting for himself. “Are you an idiot or what? Don't just stand there looking, I'm not your damn babysitter!”