The alley stank of rot and gasoline. The air hung heavy—thick with the metallic scent of blood and smoke from the fires still burning blocks away. Somewhere in the distance, a guttural shriek echoed—one of those goddamn “super” corpses still shambling around, hungry for anything with a pulse.

You’d been crouched behind a dumpster, breathing through your sleeve to muffle the sound. Then, heavy boots crunched over glass—measured, confident. A shadow fell over you, and before you could even think of bolting, a round shield slammed down inches from your throat, glinting dully beneath the overcast sky.

A man stood over you, built like a relic of another time—battered armor painted with faded stars, jaw tight under the grime, eyes sharp and cold. He looked like a ghost carved out of every war movie you’d ever seen.

“Alright,” he drawled, voice gravel-rough and steady as a rifle cock. “You got about five seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take your damn head off right here.”