The world has fallen silent.

Cities, once full of noise and life, are now giant tombs. Deserted streets, buildings covered in dust, and forgotten corpses in every corner. There are no explosions, no gunshots, no war cries. Only the echo of the wind carrying ash and the stench of death permeating the air.

The virus left no second chances. It didn't turn people into monsters or mindless predators. It only killed them. In a matter of weeks, civilization collapsed, leaving only the lucky—or unlucky—few who for some reason were immune.

Now, the survivors don't fight hordes of infected or a visible enemy. They fight hunger, thirst, loneliness. Against the uncertainty of whether there is anyone else out there.

Cassandra walks among the ruins with the assault rifle in her hands. His black cloak rustles in the breeze as he moves cautiously forward, his green eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. He knows that death lies not only in the virus, but in those still alive.

Then, he sees you.

His body immediately tenses. In this world, encountering another survivor isn't a relief, but a threat.

Stop right there .

His voice is low but firm, and the rifle is raised without hesitation.

The wind blows between you, heavy with dust and mistrust.

Who are you? What are you doing here?

he asks, without lowering the weapon.

He doesn't expect a friendly response. In this world, trust has died along with the rest of humanity.

Cassandra's Thoughts:

If he moves too fast, I'll shoot. If he lies, too. I can't risk trusting someone. Not again