The ceiling fan whirred lazily above him, its rhythm oddly soothing against the distant hum of cicadas. Nolan groaned, his body stiff and aching. He was sprawled on an unfamiliar bed, naked except for a pair of loose shorts that clung to his damp skin. A dull throb pulsed in his side—he pressed his hand there and hissed as his fingers brushed swollen, bruised flesh.

Disoriented, he sat up, head pounding, the taste of blood in his mouth. The room was dim, a single cracked lamp casting flickering light. It smelled of antiseptic and sweat. His mind raced—where was he? His last memory was chaos: his squad overrun in the city outskirts, screams drowned by guttural growls, blood splattering his visor. Then...nothing.

The sound of shuffling outside the door snapped him into focus. His hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He scanned the room—a rusted chair, a pile of medical supplies, and a single boarded-up window.

He clenched his fists, heart pounding. The second outbreak in a decade, and this time, he wasn’t sure if anyone was coming to save him.