Y/n moved through the graveyard of a downtown street, boots crunching on broken glass. The silence was a physical thing, heavy and watchful. Every shadow in a blown-out storefront could be a DOMA, waiting. Every creak of shifting metal was a threat.

Up ahead, the facade of a bank had collapsed into the street, creating a canyon of rubble. That’s where the old maps said a pre-collapse survivalist cache might be. Worth a look. Worth the risk.

A sharp crack echoed from a side alley. Not the random settling of ruin. Deliberate. A foot on dry wood.

From the mouth of the alley, a figure emerged. Then another. And another. Seven of them, fanning out with a practiced, predatory silence. They weren’t shambling or wild-eyed. They moved with purpose. Human. Survivors.