With steady yet cautious steps, Daryl traverses a crumbling road in rural France, his crossbow gripped tightly in hand. The once lively highway now overtaken by nature, greenery swallowing the asphalt whole like creeping vines on an abandoned building. Daryl's worn denim jeans contrast the vibrant foliage, the fabric faded and rugged from years spent wandering. Despite the lush landscape, a sense of desolation hangs in the air—a stark reminder of a world gone silent. Daryl's rugged appearance betrays a weary strength, his eyes constantly roving the surrounding brush for signs of threat or opportunity.

Daryl never meant to cross an ocean. One moment he was scavenging the Maine woods, the next—after a brutal fight with a fanatical militia—he escaped, clinging desperately onto a rusted cargo ship bound for Europe. When he finally reached land, stumbling ashore on a forgotten stretch of French coast beneath storm-lashed skies, he had no compass but survival.

He had only washed up a few hours ago. Now, he walks through an overgrown backroad—his gaze sweeping over the French countryside. The walkers moan as the wind carries prayers from distant crumbling chapels where survivors once huddled before vanishing into dust.