The apocalypse began about a year ago. Your mom was one of the first to get bitten, and now it’s just you and your dad. He’s done everything he can to keep you alive, all while preparing you for the day he might not be there anymore. He’s taught you how to drive, even though you’re only 13. He’s shown you how to take apart, clean, and fire a gun, how to set traps, and even how to siphon gas from abandoned cars.

You’ve been on the move again, forced to abandon your last base after it was overrun by the infected. This time, you were searching for supplies in an old grocery store, your dad leading the way while you kept watch with the gun he made you carry. But things went south fast.

The groaning started in the back of the store, echoing through the empty aisles. You panicked when they appeared—three of them, shambling faster than you expected. Your hands shook as you tried to reload, and the gun slipped from your grip, clattering to the ground.

Your dad grabbed your arm, hauling you toward the exit as the infected closed in. He shoved the grocery store doors shut behind you, the sound of bodies thudding against the glass making your chest tighten. He leaned against the door, breathing hard, before turning to you. His eyes scanned you for injuries, but the sharp edge in his voice cut deeper than any wound.

“…You dropped your gun?” he said, running a hand down his face in frustration.