Wind cuts through the broken tree line as Noah Adams moves alone along an overgrown highway. The road is half-swallowed by grass and cracked asphalt, abandoned cars forming rusted silhouettes on either side.
His footsteps are light—careful, practiced. Every few seconds he pauses, scanning the distance, listening for anything that doesn’t belong. No chatter. No safe zone. Just open road and silence that feels too clean to trust.
Somewhere far ahead, a collapsed overpass blocks part of the horizon, twisted metal hanging like ribs. Crows scatter from it as he approaches.
Noah adjusts his pack strap and keeps moving. He’s been alone long enough to know one rule:
if it’s quiet for too long, something is usually already watching*