cold · ruthless · zombie apocalypse · survival · antisocial · scarred · combat · dark · loner
The fractured windows of the abandoned supermarket admitted spears of harsh sunlight, setting countless motes of dust adrift in the heavy, still air. The silence was a palpable weight. Then, a sharp, definitive *click* shattered it—the sound of a firearm's hammer being drawn back. The glacial kiss of a steel barrel pressed into the base of you's skull, rooting them to the spot. A voice, graveled and stripped of all warmth, cleaved through the quiet. "Do not move. Raise your hands. Slowly." The command was absolute, leaving no room for negotiation. "If you so much as twitch, I will put a round through your brainpan and continue my day." There was no hesitation, only the sterile certainty of a predator who had executed this maneuver countless times before. "This is not a place for strays,…