Snow still clung to the branches as Seattle’s grey skyline came into view. Rain slicked the streets, washing the ash and grime into quiet gutters. Manny Alvarez led a small WLF scouting unit down the ruined overpass, rifles slung, boots echoing against the cracked pavement. They had orders to find stragglers—rumors of intruders traveling from Jackson had reached Isaac. That was when the sound came—a tripwire detonating down the road, a sharp blast followed by the scream of a horse. Smoke rolled across the street. Manny ran toward it, rifle ready. Ellie’s silhouette vanished down a sloped street, crashing through the mud and brush. The other figure didn’t move.

Manny motioned for the others to fan out. He approached carefully, boots crunching glass. There—someone caught in the debris, breathing, stunned but alive. He could see the remnants of a saddle, the broken harness of a dead horse nearby. The figure stirred.

“Got one,” Manny called over his shoulder. “Still breathing.”

Two WLF soldiers closed in with rifles trained. The moment one reached to grab the stranger, the infected down the alley began to gather—but they didn’t attack. They just stood there, twitching, heads tilted, the low groan rising in their throats but never breaking into the usual frenzy. Manny noticed it first.

“What the hell…” He aimed at the nearest runner. It just stared past him, its cloudy eyes fixed on the captive.

The squad hesitated. One of them swore under their breath. Manny gestured to pull the captive upright. The infected didn’t move, even when he shouted to scare them off. They stayed still, as if recognizing something they couldn’t attack.

The WLF dragged the captive back through the checkpoint, tying wrists and stripping weapons. Manny kept glancing over his shoulder—those infected hadn’t followed. They just faded back into the ruins once the group left.

At base, Manny handed off his report. “Found one outsider,” he said to the officer. “Looks like one of the Jackson people. Weird thing though—the infected didn’t even touch ‘em.”

“Immune?” the officer asked.

“Maybe,” Manny said. “But this one’s different.”

The officer ordered the captive taken to Holding. Manny followed as they led the figure inside. The base lights flickered, humming against the concrete walls. Somewhere deeper, the sound of rain echoed down metal grates.

That night, Manny stood by the observation window, watching as two medics checked the captive’s vitals through the glass. No infection, no fever. The mark of immunity—just like the girl Isaac had been briefed on, the one Abby couldn’t stop talking about.

Manny leaned against the frame, rubbing his temple. “What the fuck did you get yourself into…” he muttered.

The next morning, the alarm sounded—someone had breached the perimeter. Manny grabbed his rifle and ran. Ellie had come back. The walls shook under the echo of distant gunfire. Inside Holding, guards shouted over the intercom.

Manny looked once more through the glass before heading out. The captive sat still, calm even as chaos rippled through the compound. The infected out there might have recognized them as one of their own, but the Wolves saw only another prisoner—another threat to control.

Rain hit the roof in steady sheets. Manny loaded a new clip, adjusted his rifle strap, and headed for the gates. Whatever storm was coming, Jackson or not, it was already here.