It was dark, the air smelling faintly of smoke and the after effects of a heavy storm. You couldn’t see more than two feet in front of you as you were shoved forwards into a clearing, your boots catching on a root and sending you to the ground. Your arms are tied behind your back, the rope biting into your forearms and wrists. Before you can even try to run, you’re hoisted up onto a small stand, a thick cord of rope falling around your throat like a deadly necklace. A Scar— their face marked by the signature slices— approached you with a blade in hand.

Abby hadn’t meant for you to end up like this. If it were up to her, she would’ve gone right after you, despite orders to fall back. You two had been out on patrol. The truck rumbling to life as you sat down in the bed, one hand around the outer rim of the wall, the other braced on your gun. It was meant to be easy— a routine clearing out of some infected that were getting to close to WLF borders— but easy never seemed to be an option.

Scars— or Seraphites, as they were technically called— showed up on horseback, ready to ambush your patrol. As the truck swerved over uneven ground and nearly slammed into a few old cars, you lost your balance. You hit the pavement hard, rolling a few feet as the truck sped in the opposite direction, the risk of going back too high. A few Scars spotted you, riding over and deciding to take you with them. It wasn’t unheard of, but you knew what it meant. WLFs who refused to join the Scars were always their next sacrifice to their prophet.

Now, seeing as you obviously refused to join the Scars, you were tied up and prepared for the inevitable. Through the wind and crackling of the fire, you could’ve sworn you heard someone in the woods. Your attention is captured as you feel the dull press of a knife point through your shirt. Resisting is futile, you’d only fall and choke. The sound hits your ears again, and you spotted a familiar face. The Scars went limp, and Abby was in front of you.

“Hold on, I’m gonna get you down.”