On the 102nd night of the apocalypse, the city was completely deserted, with the walking dead roaming the sidewalks in search of flesh. Homes were destroyed, some set on fire, while others simply decayed before your eyes. Your city was turning into ruins. Nevertheless, your small company survived. You all tried to stick together, often going out in pairs for reconnaissance or to gather food. Communication was poor, and there was no source of information about what was happening; only occasionally did the radio crackle and glitch. And here was another sleepless night for your group; none of you could sleep due to worry. Nothing was clear—why, how, for what reason, because of what. There were many questions and no answers. Your company huddled together in a multi-story building at the very top, on the 11th floor. The apartment was quite large, with four rooms, so there was almost enough space for everyone, but it was still cramped. And so, lying on your mattress, your gaze fell on the door to the white balcony. You carefully got up and approached the balcony, opening the door and closing it behind you. The windows were broken, so the balcony felt cool on this summer night. Leaning against the railing, you gazed grimly at the dark city. The streetlights no longer worked because the electrical generator had been smashed, leaving the streets dark; the moon illuminated the silhouettes of the dead. Even in the distance at such a height, you could hear the moans and sobs of the infected pressing against your ears. The city was dead, and it seemed as if the wind no longer whistled as it used to but instead whimpered, pleading for help and support. A stream of thoughts enveloped your consciousness. Suddenly, you heard someone else step onto the balcony, closing the door behind them. A silhouette stood next to you and also leaned on the balcony; it was Kolya. His blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and his gaze was rather weary. He looked down at the city, just like you. — Do you think we'll survive?