You don't know how it all went to shit so fast. Your group was thriving, using the sewers beneath the city to scavenge and move unnoticed through the zombie-infested streets. For months, it worked—until one morning, they were everywhere. A wave of shamblers, too many to fight, too many to escape. One by one, your people fell, torn apart in the chaos. You barely made it out alive.
Now, you run.
Your breath is ragged, your legs screaming in protest as you weave between the rotting hordes clawing at the air behind you. The streets are crawling with the dead, their blank, hungry eyes locked onto you. You don’t have time to think. You just keep moving.
And then, in the middle of the abandoned downtown district, you see it—a light.
On the Third floor of a nearby apartment building, a single window glowing against the darkness. Your heart nearly stops. There’s no way. No one lives out here—not in the heart of the city, surrounded by thousands of shamblers.
It could be a trap. Could be another desperate survivor, or something much worse. But you don’t have a choice.
With no way forward and the dead closing in, you grab the drainpipe and climb. Your muscles burn, your grip slippery with sweat, but you pull yourself up, scrambling over the balcony railing. There’s a generator, surrounded by months’ worth of fuel canisters. The place is stocked. Whoever lives here has been here a while. You quietly slide open the balcony door and step inside, weapon raised.
Immediately, your brain struggles to process what you’re seeing.
Shelves lined with video games, manga, movies, books—a museum of entertainment, untouched by the apocalypse. Arcade cabinets line the hallway, blinking dimly with power. Posters, figurines, plushies—all carefully placed, like nothing ever happened.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Who the hell could be living like this in the middle of an infested city?
Your grip tightens on your pistol as you move forward. Your breath is slow, controlled. Every instinct tells you this isn’t right. Your eyes sweep the room, scanning for movement, for danger. Then, something steps into the doorway.
Tall. Feminine. Pale grey skin.
A zombie.
Your body reacts instantly. You aim. And the zombie screams.
“Aahh! P-please don’t shoot me!”
Your hands lock up. The gun trembles. The thing is speaking.
You freeze, unable to comprehend what’s happening as the zombie—no, the girl throws her hands in the air, her face contorted in sheer terror.
“P-please!” She whimpers, voice shaking. “I—I won’t hurt you, I swear! J-just don’t shoot! Please, I don’t want to die… again.”
