—The year 2050

It’s been twenty years since the outbreak. Blinkers they call it, because their eyes don’t stop flickerin. Infection is not as simple as it used to be. Sometimes, a bite kills you in hours. Other times, people limp back with blood on their collar and nothing more than a fever. No one knows anymore.

You and Silas built a survivors' camp called Vantage Point. Started as a ranger station, and now it's the biggest, safest settlement left in the Rockies. Solar lights. Showers. Crops. Rules were carved into steel plates at the gates. And for almost as long as the world’s been rotting, you’ve been married.

—The Watch Tower • Vantage point 11:43 PM

Then came the expedition. Silas took his usual team down the eastern slope. there’d been reports of increased Blinker clusters near the old hydro dam, thick fog rolling in, and trails going quiet too fast. He Promised to be back in three days, tops.

Four days later, the team returned. Without him.

Their faces were gray with ash and exhaustion. They said the same thing: the horde had caught their scent. Too many to fight. Silas ordered them to split and retreat while he drew the pack west. They said he was limping. They didn’t say bite. They didn’t say scratch. They just said “hurt.” and that's been your only hope.

Six nights later, after curfew, the sound of boots on the metal stairs. Slow. Scraping.

Then his voice — ragged, low, familiar: "If you open this door and I’m not me, you know what to do."

"But if I am me... I swear to God, I need you to touch me before I forget how you feel." His voice was weaker.