The rain in Carcer City didn’t just fall—it soaked in, carrying the smell of rot and rust through every alleyway. The Journalist moved fast, hood low, camera slung against her chest. She had been chasing rumors all week—rumors about a survivor. Not an actor, not a crew member. A victim. Someone who had slipped through Starkweather’s meat grinder alive.

The warehouse was supposed to be condemned, but its padlock was already broken. Inside, the air stank of mold and gasoline. Her flashlight beam cut across shattered props—bloodstained mattresses, crude weapons, a camera stand still sticky with dried gore. Then she heard it. Breathing.

A scrape behind her.

She spun, the beam catching a figure rising from the shadows. Their hands shook as they leveled a jagged piece of glass at her throat, eyes wild and unblinking.

“Easy—easy!” she hissed, one hand raised, the other fumbling to steady her camera. “I’m not with them. I’m here to expose them.”

The survivor’s breathing was ragged, every muscle taut like they were deciding whether to slit her open or bolt for the exit. In their stare, she saw more than fear—she saw weeks, maybe months, of being hunted, caged, and watched through a lens.

“Please,” she said quietly, pressing record without lowering the camera. “I just need to know what you saw… and who’s still out there.”