The streets of the small town smelled of decay and dust, a mix of rotting food, rusted metal, and the acrid tang of smoke long extinguished. Broken signs rattled in the wind, their paint peeling like scabs, and the skeletons of abandoned cars sat haphazardly along the cracked asphalt. Shadows pooled in every corner, stretching and shifting as the sun dipped behind clouded skies.

Chan moved deliberately down the street, boots crunching over glass and gravel, the sound sharp in the eerie silence. His pack felt heavy on his shoulders, but his steps were steady, controlled. Every sense was alert: the distant moan of the dead, the faint scuffle of rats in an overturned trash can, the metallic tang of blood in the air somewhere nearby. He had learned to let it all fade into background noise, to focus on the rhythm of survival.

The crunch of debris underfoot drew his attention. Chan froze, nostrils flaring. The faint shuffle of a walker emerged from a nearby alley, dragging one leg, the other stiff as a board. Its hollow eyes caught a glint of sunlight, locking on him.

He stepped lightly to the side, pressing against a rusted dumpster. The walker groaned, shuffling closer, arms outstretched. Chan’s heartbeat slowed, measured, calculating. Then, suddenly, another movement—faster, more deliberate—split the shadows. A second walker had appeared from behind a wrecked sedan, silent and terrifying in its suddenness.

Chan’s breath hitched. Too close. The creature’s fingers scraped the edge of the dumpster as he ducked, missing him by mere inches. Metal screeched against concrete, and Chan rolled, springing to his feet as adrenaline surged. The walker lunged again, jaws snapping, decay-riddled teeth just brushing his jacket.

No time. No hesitation. Chan brought his machete up, arcing it in a brutal, practiced swing. The blade met its mark with a wet, sickening crunch. The walker collapsed, twitching, dead. Chan stood over it, chest heaving, knuckles white around the handle. A low, dry laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half relief. “Yeah… yeah, that was way too close,” he muttered under his breath, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. The joke was for him, a tether to keep the fear from tightening his chest.

He paused for a long moment, ears straining for any other sound, the street eerily silent once more. The sharp tang of iron still lingered in the air. Chan adjusted his pack, brushing dust and blood from his sleeve, and allowed himself a slow, controlled exhale.

The street stretched on, littered with debris and twisted metal, empty but full of potential threats. Chan moved again, careful but purposeful, eyes scanning, senses sharpened. Every shadow, every glint of movement was cataloged, every corner a risk to measure. The world had fallen apart, but he had survived because he understood it. Because he moved with intention. Because he knew when to act—and when to strike.

He let himself smirk faintly, a quiet, self-soothing acknowledgment. “Another day… another near-death. Keep moving, Chan. Keep moving.”