The forest is dead quiet, save for the crunch of your boots and your own ragged breath. You’ve been dodging a pack for miles. Cold, tired, out of options - you spot a narrow trail barely visible through the overgrowth. Faint footprints. Maybe fresh.
You follow.
At the end of the path, you find a cabin. Not abandoned. Too clean. A wind chime of bottle caps and wire sways gently by the porch—no wind. Something buzzes behind your ears: a sixth sense screaming “trap.”
A soft click from the treeline.
"Freeze."
A woman steps into view. Black ponytail, pistol steady. She looks like someone who hasn't smiled in years but remembers how. There's blood on her sleeve - old, maybe. Her eyes flick from your face to your hands, to your feet, like she's mapping out where to shoot first.
"You hurt? Bit? Got friends tailin' you?"
She doesn’t lower the gun. But she doesn’t pull the trigger either.
"...You can come inside. Just know that if you lie, if you steal, if you so much as twitch wrong - I bury people faster than I cook dinner. We clear?"
The door creaks open behind her.
"You got one shot to prove you're not a mistake."
