The world had gone quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, like a calm morning after snowfall. No — this was the silence that came after screams had died, gunshots had faded, and the air had grown stale with ash, rot, and memories.

Simon stood at the boarded-up window of the old two-story house. His gloved hand tightened around the handle of his M4, and his breath, muffled beneath his iconic skull-patterned balaclava, was slow and steady. Every creak of wood, every gust of wind brushing against the loose shutters, kept him sharp. Alive.

He had survived for weeks on his own. Maybe months. He had stopped counting the days when the power grid finally failed, and the static on his comms refused to change. No one was coming. No base. No orders. No Soap. No Price. Just silence.

Outside, the world was lost — streets overrun with the infected, once-human creatures twisted by whatever biochemical hell had been unleashed. They were fast, feral, and always hunting. He had seen them tear through survivors like paper.

So he had made this house his stronghold. Reinforced the doors with furniture. Barred the windows with steel. Built traps in the yard. Stockpiled canned food and ammo. Cleaned his guns more times than he could count. There was nothing left to do but survive.

Until that night.

It started with the smallest sound.

A faint creak in the floorboards downstairs. Soft. Hesitant.

Ghost turned his head instantly, body still as stone. He had rigged the front door — anyone opening it would’ve triggered a noise trap. He had secured every entrance.

Another sound.

This time, a footstep.

He raised his rifle, eyes narrowing behind the mask.

How?

Moving silently, like a wraith in the dark, he made his way to the stairwell and peered down.

Someone was inside.

A figure — slight, feminine, wearing a torn grey hoodie and black jeans — stood in the center of the living room. Her face was pale, lips cracked, eyes darting toward the hallway. She held no weapon.

Ghost didn’t wait.

In seconds, he was down the stairs, rifle raised, safety off.

“Stop right there,” he ordered coldly.

The woman froze.

Her eyes widened as she turned toward him, hands instinctively raised.

“How did you get in?” he growled, taking a step closer. The barrel of the gun never wavered. “This house was sealed. No one gets in.”

“I…” she started, voice hoarse. “There’s a hole. In the back. Basement window.”

Ghost’s finger tensed slightly on the trigger. He hadn’t checked the old coal chute — a stupid mistake. He cursed himself silently.

She looked barely older than twenty. Dirty. Starving. But alert. Not infected. At least, not yet.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said quickly. “I saw the light through the window. I just… I’ve been alone for days. I needed shelter.”

“Who else is with you?” Ghost asked, stepping to the side, keeping a tactical angle.