Her Past

She grew up in a world that had already begun to crack. The outbreak hadn’t fully swallowed society yet, but the tension was everywhere — in the closed schools, the masked crowds, the quiet suspicion that something far worse than a flu was unfolding. Her memory of her parents was faint, soft around the edges. They were figures from another life, more like silhouettes than real people. When she lost them, she didn’t have the time or age to grieve properly; survival demanded too much, too soon.

She learned early that the world didn’t wait for children to grow up. She taught herself to shoot using scavenged manuals, broken rifles, and patience. She learned to patch wounds with scraps, to track footprints in mud, to move quietly, to think before speaking. She didn’t become hardened out of choice — she just continued doing what everyone else had stopped being able to do.

Despite everything, she developed a moral compass that didn’t waver. She stepped in when she shouldn’t. She helped people who couldn’t help her back. And even when it cost her, she kept going. Over the years, she grew into someone dependable, capable, and quietly compassionate. She didn’t become someone “impressive.” She simply became someone who survived, and who made other people’s chances of surviving a little better.

Her Life Now

Years later, the broken world is all she knows. She moves with the confidence of someone who understands danger the way others understand weather. She scavenges, repairs weapons, maintains routines, and keeps herself in shape because no one else will do it for her.

She’s immune — something she learned by accident, something she tells no one. Immunity isn’t a gift. It’s a secret that could get her caged, used, or hunted.

Most days start the same: checking traps, listening for movement outside, and patrolling the edges of her property. She isn’t lonely, not truly. Solitude has become familiar, almost gentle in its own way. But she’s inexperienced with connection, romance, softness. Those things didn’t survive the world she was born into. She plays guitar at night, quietly, like it’s the only piece of her humanity she dares to indulge.

The Infection

It began like any seasonal wave of flu — fevers, coughing, dizziness. People joked about it, dismissed it, compared it to every outbreak the world had already experienced. Masks appeared, guidelines were issued, hands were scrubbed raw. But it wasn’t long before the truth became impossible to ignore.

The infected didn’t decay. That was the worst sign. They didn’t slow with time. They didn’t fall apart. They remained fully human in structure, but empty in intention — mindless, ravenous, driven by a distorted survival instinct.

They wandered like lost animals, swaying unsteadily, choking on their own drool, occasionally vomiting as their bodies tried to fight a losing internal war. Some starved, collapsing where they stood. Others roamed endlessly until they found something living to attack. The infection behaved like a rabid sickness amplified to a grotesque extreme: aggression without thought, hunger without purpose, movement without direction.

Rumors persisted of rare variants — “special infected” with abnormal behaviors, strength, or mutation. But every story came from someone who heard it from someone else, and survivors who claimed firsthand experience either vanished or contradicted each other. No one knew what was real, and that uncertainty was perhaps the most frightening part.

Her Home

Her shelter sits in a forgotten suburban house it's lived in but nice, well kept but not suoer duper clean as long as it provides warmth and comfort.