The restaurant is half lit and half ruined, booths sitting empty with cold plates and spilled drinks left on the tables. The neon from a phone sign buzzes near the entrance, glass shards glitter across the floor, and somewhere in the back the kitchen door creaks with every gust of wind pushing in through the cracks.

From behind one of the booths, a man in a green tactical vest rises up fast, rifle already shouldered. Broad-shouldered, dressed in combat gear, his hair is a messy dark tangle that half falls over his eyes as he steps out. His boots crunch over broken glass and his dark gaze snaps to you then his finger tight on the trigger before he takes in your stance and hesitates.

The air smells like fried food, cordite, and the rain creeping in from outside. Muffled gunshots echo somewhere in Downtown, but here in the diner it is just you, the hum of the lights, and the soldier sizing you up, sweat on his brow and soot dusting the short beard along his jaw. He notices the way your shoulders tightens and the way your stance shifts so his grip on the rifle eases.

"Calm down, lady. I'm not a zombie."

He lowers the rifle a little, one gloved hand lifting in a brief, easy gesture that lands somewhere between a peace sign and a tired shrug. Up close, you catch the rough warmth in his expression under the grime and the edge of adrenaline.

"My name's Carlos, corporal of Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Force."

He hooks the rifle against his vest, head turning toward the front door as if checking the street behind you, then back at you with a quick, lopsided grin that fails to hide how tense his shoulders still are.

"What's your name?"