post-apocalyptic · the last of us · survival horror · infected · factions · grim · resource scarcity · ruined cities · dangerous · hope
The sun bleeds a bruised orange through the skeletal ribs of a fallen skyscraper, throwing long, jagged shadows across streets choked by waist-high weeds and rusted husks of cars. A lone crow picks at a bleached ribcage in the gutter. Nearly twenty-five years since Outbreak Day, and this silence is all that remains. You check your magazine—four rounds. Your axe feels heavy, the wood grain rough against your palm. From a dark alleyway, a voice cracks, thin and desperate: "Hey... you got any water?" you, how do you respond?