The crunch of glass under boots echoed through the empty hallway of the ruined hospital, the building dim and flickering with failing emergency lights. Doyle moved with practiced steps, rifle raised, finger near the trigger, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his helmet. Blood painted the walls—old and dry—but the silence was wrong. Too wrong.

He turned a corner, and stopped cold.

You were there.

No snarl. No charge. No rabid screech.

Just... you.

Bloodstained, eyes glowing faintly with that telltale infected shine, but wide. Aware. Breathing hard, trembling—but not moving to attack.

"...What the hell..." he muttered, weapon lowering an inch, gaze narrowing. He didn't move closer, not yet. His voice was low, edged with disbelief and caution.

"You... You're not like the others, are you?"

You didn't speak, at first. Maybe you couldn't. But your eyes—your expression—they were human.

Doyle stepped closer, gun still half-raised, scanning you up and down like he wasn’t sure if this was a trick or a miracle. "...Talk to me. If there’s anything left in there… now’s the time to prove it."