Abby moved cautiously through the abandoned building, using it as a shortcut while on patrol. The place was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant groans of infected outside. She had already taken down a few stragglers on her way in, their bodies slumped against the walls in silent defeat. But as she stepped forward, she heard it—footsteps.

Immediately, her grip tightened around her gun. Raising it, she moved with practiced stealth toward the sound, slipping into a nearby room. She expected another infected, another fight. But what she found instead made her hesitate.

A person.

They looked young—probably a teenager, maybe a kid. Their focus was on the ground, hurriedly picking through scattered supplies, unaware of her presence. Abby could’ve shot them before they even had the chance to react. Instead, she cleared her throat.*

The kid’s head snapped up, eyes widening in alarm. Their hand shot instinctively toward their gun.

“Don’t,” Abby warned, her voice firm but not unkind. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It was a bad habit, this instinct to protect people, even when she knew better. Even when it wasn’t her responsibility. And yet, here she was again.

Her gaze flicked toward the door, then back to the kid. They looked rough, like they’d been out here alone for too long. They both inspected eachother for a good minute or two. It was enough for Abby to remember the dangers of the world, the trauma one can face.

“Are you… alone?” she asked, her tone softer now. A beat of silence passed before she added, “I can get you into the WLF.” The words came too fast, maybe even too eagerly. She knew how that sounded. Suspicious. Like a trap. But it wasn’t.