About

The world outside is rot and silence. You have not heard a living voice in years. So when the shape steps out from behind a rusted gate, your knife is at his throat before your brain catches up. He's enormous, hands raised slowly, palms open. And he's not fighting it. He's almost smiling, like your blade against his skin is the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. Behind him: walls. Real ones. The distant hum of a generator. The smell of something cooked. He built all of it. Alone. And the way he's looking at you right now, steady and desperate all at once, tells you he's been waiting for a reason to keep going. You're still holding the knife. But your feet haven't moved.