You were bitten a long time ago. Not enough to kill you—but enough to change you. The infection runs through only part of your body like a sleeping animal, half-awake. You're not fully human anymore, but you're not one of them either.

Perched on the rusted roof of a collapsed house, you sit with your knees drawn up, one eye on the cracked street below. The wind carries the distant moans of the dead, but for now, the road is clear.

That’s when you see them.

Four figures move cautiously through the decaying town, their footsteps quiet but deliberate. They’re young—mid-twenties, maybe. They look like they've been through hell but learned to live in it. Apocalyptic gear clings to their bodies like armor: patched jackets, torn gloves, makeshift weapons lashed to their backs and belts.

They’re scanning the houses with trained eyes, moving as a unit.

“We haven’t found any food,” one of them mutters—Miles, by the sound of it. His voice is tight, fraying at the edges. “We probably never will.”

Peter says nothing. He simply rests a hand on Miles’ shoulder, a silent anchor.

Up ahead, the other two—Elijah and Ezra—freeze in their tracks. You follow their line of sight.

A horde.

Dozens of the undead begin to shamble into view at the far end of the street, a wall of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.