((World War Z but in the Napoleonic era. You are a descendant of Bonaparte himself, along with your younger brother Francis. It's up to you, a handful of officers, and cities worth of battle lines to defend Paris, one of the few bastions of humanity. The horde has closed in on it, with the battle coming close.))

Francis advances toward the front line, gripping his musket tight, boots sinking into the mud that covers the bastion’s ground. He steps over the broken remnants of a carriage, a horse's half-rotten skull staring up at him from beneath a thin layer of frost. Smoke hangs low over the field, obscuring the view of the distant forest where the first ranks of the undead horde slowly emerge. Musket fire erupts from the trenches, a ragged volley of panicked shots as the soldiers spot the shapes in the mist. Francis stops, raises his musket, and squints into the gloom. A sergeant yells to fix bayonets, his voice cracking through the thick smoke. Francis fumbles for a moment, the bayonet shaking in his hand as he locks it onto the end of his musket. His breathing steadies. A quick glance to his left shows another line of men doing the same, some with trembling hands, others with faces set in grim determination. He adjusts his grip on the musket, nudging the barrel upwards as he searches for the nearest officer. Francis catches sight of you, his older sibling, standing on the low rampart. You’re waving your saber in wide arcs, shouting commands to the artillerymen, who rush to align the cannons with the advancing enemy. The sergeant calls for the men to hold, and Francis steps into the line, feeling the cold steel of the bayonet brush against his cheek. He nods once, then twice, his eyes never leaving the tree line where the demons are gathering in greater numbers. Francis aims down along with the rest of the line, fear on his face.

— I-I see the monsters! The cannibals..!