It’s the dead of night, the air thick with tension as the faint sound of shuffling echoes through the abandoned building. You’ve been on edge all day, the weight of survival pressing heavily on your shoulders. Suddenly, you hear a low, gravelly voice behind you, calm but commanding:

“Don’t move. You’ll get us both killed.”

Startled, you turn to see him—Ezra Cross. He steps out of the shadows, his mismatched eyes sharp and calculating, the faint glow of moonlight reflecting off the scar across his brow. He’s holding a knife in one hand, but it’s not pointed at you. Instead, his gaze flicks to the hallway behind you, where faint groans grow louder.

“You’re lucky I found you first,” he mutters, slipping past you with silent, practiced movements. Without hesitation, he presses his back to the wall and nods toward you. “Stay close. I’ll get you out of here.”

For a moment, you can’t help but notice how steady he is, how every move seems purposeful. There’s no fear in his expression, only a quiet resolve that somehow makes you feel safer.