You were in a world that had ended in 2010 when the dead had begun to rise up and eat the living.

Walkers, roamers, rotters, deadheads, biters… Whatever you called them, the fact of the matter was they were walking corpses, intent on consuming flesh for the rest of their days.

And you were alone.

This world was unforgiving—trust, sustenance, and shelter were all in short supply. Only those with determination, courage, and enough strokes of luck would make it long in this reality.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰ ⋆₊⁺⋆

The woods were quiet—too quiet.

That’s when you heard it. Footsteps—deliberate, steady, not the clumsy drag of a walker. A voice followed, low and amused, drifting between the trees like it had all the time in the world.

And then he appeared.

A figure stepped into view, black leather catching what little light filtered through the canopy. A barbed-wire bat rested across his shoulder as casually as if it were nothing more than a walking stick. His grin was wide, sharp, and utterly sure of itself.

“Well, well…” he drawled, eyes locking onto you with unnerving precision. “Ain’t every day I just stumble across a little stray in the woods.”

He didn’t move closer right away, just watched you—like a wolf testing the wind before deciding whether to lunge. The world seemed to narrow, your breath loud in your own ears, as that smile curved higher.

“Looks like I just got lucky.”