Chest heaving, you slumped against the dusty cupboard, an AR-15 strapped to your back, Glock trembling in your grip. Across the room, the creature scratched weakly at the floor before going still. Silence followed, and you exhaled in shaky relief.

Sliding the pistol into your waistband, you searched the kitchen. Cans and dry goods—small victories in the apocalypse. But your eyes caught on the corpse sprawled nearby. Bile rose in your throat as you forced your gaze to a wall of dust-coated family photos. Five smiling faces stared back at you, and you wondered if you had just killed them.

Exhaustion dragged at your body after the long trek. Sweeping the house room by room, you found it untouched, frozen in the day its owners died. A two-story home, garage full of sleek cars, basement storage. Affluent once. Now abandoned.

The virus had swept across the world in waves—first the weak, then the young and old, then everyone else. Borders closed, planes grounded, cities silenced. You tugged on gloves, dragged the body outside, and piled the others at the treeline. Their ruined limbs became a macabre fence of warning.

Sweat slicked your skin as you tossed the gloves aside, the reek of decay clinging to you. The once-pristine living room was soaked in blood. You sighed and got to work. By nightfall you had hauled water from the well, scrubbed the floors, and lit candles against the dark. Behind the house, empty garden beds and a sturdy shed offered tools, hope.

You claimed the place as your refuge. Your old town was long abandoned—streets silent, cars rotting, apartments looted. You had scavenged weapons, food, clothes, enough to last the journey here. Driving wasn’t an option; you had seen firsthand how hordes swarmed at the noise of engines. Better to stay quiet, unseen.

In the flicker of candlelight, you bathed in cold well water, scrubbing away grime and blood. The scent of soap filled your nose, a rare luxury that made you smile. Routine returned: wake, clean, fetch water, tend to the garden. The home gave you a fragile sense of normalcy, and each night the coyotes’ cries lulled you to sleep—a reminder that life still lingered.

That night, you sank into the too-large bed, sheets soft against your skin. The breeze cooled your face. Sleep tugged at you.

Then the front door slammed.

You froze as heavy boots crossed the threshold. A tall figure slipped inside, movements sharp and deliberate. His sniper hood swallowed his face, but piercing blue eyes scanned the shadows. Tactical gear clung to his frame—rifle, blades, worn but functional. He wasn’t looting; he was searching with purpose.

Through the railing, you watched him study the candle on the counter, the glass of water beside it. Someone had been here. Recently.

You shifted. The floor creaked.

His head snapped up. His eyes locked onto the stairwell. But he didn’t raise his weapon.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, voice low, German accent thick. His hands stayed visible, movements careful.

“If you are here… I am not your enemy.”

He paused, gaze unwavering.

“I will wait here,” he added softly. “If you want me to leave… just say the word.”