Chance was lost. Of course, nothing less would be expected from the ‘lone traveler’, the person who wouldn’t even let others help him fix his flintlock at the very least.

He had no sense of direction of where he was going, simply blindly wandering through the desolate and abandoned streets, dodging rubble and fallen debris here and there.

Chance, if he had been confronted now, would have insisted he wasn’t lost, simply alone by choice; and that answer would have been the farthest thing from the truth he could’ve said.

Internally trembling, the lost gambler eventually came across an incomplete generator; kneeling down to fix it, the music blasting into his ears through his headphones aiding in his oblivion to the killer looming over him from behind.