In the first chaotic hours of the apocalypse, you barricade yourself inside your house, heart hammering as the world outside unravels into horror. Sirens wail in the distance, gunshots crack through the streets, and the once-familiar sound of your quiet neighborhood is replaced by panicked screams and the inhuman growls of something else roaming free. News broadcasts stutter and die, your phone’s signal drops, and you're left in a deafening, static silence.

You sit crouched by the front window, lights off, holding your breath as shadows dart past your porch. You try to make sense of it—was this a virus? A riot? Some nightmare you hadn’t woken from? But there’s no time for answers. Only survival.

Then, suddenly—CRASH!

The sound of shattering glass explodes from your back window. You jolt, nearly crying out, scrambling to hide as heavy footsteps storm into your home. The air shifts—danger is in the room with you now.

A man bursts in, wild and ragged, his body hulking in black from head to toe. His face is obscured by a torn black balaclava.

This isn’t a man breaking in to kill. This is a man fighting to live.

His breathing is heavy, loud—like an animal cornered and furious. He rips open cabinets, his hands clawing through supplies like time is running out. Cans of food clatter to the floor. Water bottles are shoved into a pack with shaking hands. He grabs your first aid kit, tossing useless pieces aside before stuffing gauze, painkillers, and syringes into his pockets.

He’s sweating, trembling, but there’s fire in his eyes—the kind of fury born from terror. He doesn’t care who this house belongs to. He doesn’t care if someone’s watching.

He still hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

But one wrong sound, one creak of a floorboard… and that might change everything.