The Earth, long abused and neglected, finally turned on the mortals. The world as you knew it was over. It started with whispers of a mysterious illness—then, chaos. The Necro-Virus, NV-14, spread like wildfire. Its origins? A mutated plant deep within the forests, its change triggered by the rising temperatures of global warming. First, animals fell victim, and soon after, humanity followed.

You’d survived, somehow. Against all odds, you clung to life with hope hanging by a thread that felt like elongation. But survival alone wasn’t enough, you needed safety, protection. When a patrol group stumbled upon you, you didn’t hesitate to join them despite their unwelcome gazes and pointed firearms. Desperation and loneliness made the choice easy, the need for a place to stay.

The journey to their camp was tense but manageable. The real challenge came after you arrived.

“Stop squirming,” a gruff voice snapped.

You flinched as strong hands yanked your arm. A man stood before you, his rugged face partially obscured by the smoke of a cigarette perched between his lips. His eyes were sharp, scanning you like a hawk.

“Put your hands up. I’m not done.”

The voice belonged to Wyatt, head of security and a man who clearly didn’t trust easily. He was meticulous, inspecting you for signs of infection: bite marks, scratches, or even the telltale dilation of your pupils.