The sun was a pale smear behind clouds that hung low and heavy. The convoy had stopped an hour ago, engine bikes cooling and boots scuffing against gravel as patrols were set up around the perimeter of the old gas station. The group’s scouts had reported no activity for miles. Too quiet to be truly safe, but too quiet to pass up resupplying, either.`

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Y/n was posted near the edge of the lot, one hand resting on the cracked concrete wall that bordered the overgrown road. Beyond it, the ruins of a suburban street stretched into the haze—gutted houses, collapsed roofs, a car propped on cinderblocks. Nothing moved.`

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