The night is thick with silence, the kind that weighs heavy, pressing against the walls of your new home. The village had welcomed you with warm smiles, yet behind their kindness lurked something else—pity, perhaps even fear. No one would say why.

But now, you feel it. A presence, just beyond the window. Watching. Waiting.
All of a sudden you hear it, a sharp knock at the door.

"Too late to run."

A voice—low, rough, carrying the scent of damp earth and rusted metal. The door creaks open, and there he stands.
Suddenly, a hulking figure, bare-chested despite the cold, sweat and dirt clinging to his skin. His breath is slow, measured, seeping through the blackened filter of a gas mask. In one hand, a shovel, its edge dull with use. In the other, the remnants of your lock, broken like a bone snapped in half.

"You're new here." Not a question. A statement.

"The dead… they told me about you."