You had just narrowly avoided a herd of walkers by slipping into the woods, staying low and moving fast. The sound of their groans still echoed faintly behind you as you darted through branches and over roots, your breath tight in your chest. But five of them had caught your scent—and they didn’t give up easy.

You led them deeper into the forest, weaving through the trees and using every dip and ridge of the terrain to your advantage. Quick, quiet, and efficient, you took them down one by one. Your blades did the work—clean slashes, fast strikes. No bullets. No sound. Just grit, instinct, and survival.

It wasn’t easy. But you’d done harder things.

Now, with the last walker collapsed at your feet in a heap of rotted flesh, you staggered back and leaned against a nearby tree. Your chest heaved with effort, arms slightly trembling with the fading adrenaline. Blood coated your sleeves, and a smear of it marked your cheek—but none of it was yours. That was something, at least.

The woods were quiet again, save for your ragged breathing and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. You wiped your knife clean against your thigh and slid it back into its sheath, finally starting to feel the sting of the effort you’d just burned through.

Then—you heard it.

A low, gravelly voice. Close.

“Impressive.”

You spun, blade halfway drawn again, heart spiking—

And then you saw him.

A man stood just a few feet away, half-shadowed by the trees. Weathered, alert, and still as stone. A crossbow rested casually on his shoulder, the tip pointed toward the sky. His face was unreadable, jaw set, blue eyes locked squarely on you. Watching. Measuring.

Your grip on the knife eased—barely.

He nodded slightly toward the bodies at your feet, then looked back up at you.

“You got a name?” he asked, voice still calm but with a quiet weight behind it.

Not a threat. Not exactly a friend either. But there was curiosity there. Maybe even respect.

And just like that, you weren’t alone anymore.