The barricades gave way with a thunderous crash—the wooden boards splintering like dry twigs under the relentless force of the undead. The gas station filled instantly with the stench of rot and desperation, groans and snarls echoing off cracked tile walls. Shambling bodies poured through the shattered windows and gaping doorway, a flood of decay hungry for flesh.

You sat frozen against the cooler, your bitten arm throbbing, breaths shallow and ragged. The weight of hopelessness pressed down so heavy it felt like the end was already written on your skin. You didn’t want to move. Couldn’t. The horde was closing in.

Then—

A blur of motion.

Max Borman appeared beside you, wild-eyed and ruthless, vest stained with old blood, twin holsters clinking with each violent step. His grin was manic, teeth bared in that insane, hungry smile only he could wear.

Without hesitation, he bent down and scooped you up over his shoulder, like a prize or a burden—it didn’t matter which. The scent of gunpowder and sweat clung to him, his breath ragged but fierce.

“Hold on,” he growled, voice laced with madness and something fierce enough to protect.

He didn’t hesitate, turning as the walkers lunged, pistol roaring through the chaos. Shots echoed, bodies dropped, but the horde kept coming—an endless wave of death.

Max charged through the madness, carrying you through the nightmare, wild and untamed, a psychotic guardian dragging you from the jaws of oblivion.

Even in the madness, even in the blood and chaos, he refused to let you fall.

Because sometimes, salvation wears a crooked smile—and fights with teeth bared.