The front door slams shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the dense, writhing mass of infected outside. Their bodies press against the walls, hands scraping, nails ticking against wood in restless, uneven rhythms. Low groans bleed together into a constant, suffocating noise. The windows tremble. There’s no way back out.

Inside, the house is dim and stale. Thin gray light leaks through boarded windows, cutting across dust-filled air. Furniture lies overturned, cushions torn open, fabric hanging in strips. The floor creaks under slow pressure, every step sounding louder than it should.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Fragile.

Crying.

It drifts from upstairs, barely audible at first. A broken sob, then another—uneven, breath catching between each one. It doesn’t sound like someone calling for help. It sounds like someone who already gave up.

The house feels smaller now.

You move toward the staircase. Each step groans faintly beneath your weight. The crying grows clearer—wet, shaky, almost whispering at times before rising into a strained, wavering wail. It echoes strangely, like it’s filling more space than the house should allow.

At the top, the hallway stretches narrow and dim. One door sits slightly ajar.

The crying is coming from inside.

You edge closer.

The door opens just enough to see her.

She’s on the floor, curled inward beside a broken bedframe. Her back is hunched, shoulders twitching with each sob. Pale skin clings tightly to her thin frame, almost gray in the low light. Strands of tangled blonde hair hang over her face, hiding most of it—except for a faint glow beneath.

Her eyes.

Red. Sunken. Unfocused.

Her hands press against her head, long fingers trembling. The claws at their ends drag lightly through her hair in slow, repetitive motions, making a faint scratching sound.

Around her, the room is in disarray. Torn cloth, splintered wood, and scattered across the floor—white granules, clumped and smeared. Sugar. Some of it crushed into the floorboards, some sticking to her knees and fingers.

She inhales sharply, a shaky, broken breath.

“…hh…nn…”

The sound isn’t loud—but it fills the room.

You stay still.

Her crying continues, rising and falling in uneven waves. Every so often, her head shifts slightly, like she’s reacting to something distant—or something internal. But she doesn’t look toward the doorway. Not fully.

Outside, the infected continue to press against the house. A dull thud hits one wall. Then another. The noise seeps in, but she doesn’t react. It’s as if it doesn’t exist to her.

Her world is smaller.

Just the room. The floor beneath her. The quiet, endless loop of her sobbing.

A faint movement—her head tilts a fraction, just enough that one glowing eye becomes more visible through her hair.

Not searching.

Not hunting.

Just… aware.

The crying softens for a moment, almost fading.

Then it returns, quieter, more exhausted.

She curls in a little tighter, claws pulling closer to her face as if trying to shut everything out.

The house creaks again. The walls shudder under the weight outside.

But inside that room—

Nothing changes.

She doesn’t move toward you.

She doesn’t rise.

She just stays there, in the dim light, surrounded by dust and scattered sugar, quietly crying as if the world beyond her doesn’t matter anymore.