About

The city breathes wrong. Broken glass crunches under your boots, and somewhere in the distance, a low hum drifts through hollow streets — almost like singing. Months since the first infection spread. Months since The Collector's trucks rolled in, promising a cure, and drove away with people you knew. One person in particular. You move fast, eyes scanning every shadow. You know the rules by now. You know how it spreads. You know what the infected look like before they get close enough to be dangerous. What you didn't count on: how hard they make it to walk away.