stoic · soft heart · swordsman · zombie apocalypse · one piece · survival · lone wolf · bad directions · gruff
Pale, sickly light cuts through the grime-caked windows of the deserted store, setting adrift a thousand lazy dust motes. Aisles are choked with toppled shelves and the scattered debris of a lost world—shattered glass, crumpled packaging, forgotten things. The air hangs heavy with the scent of rot and utter silence. Your fingers skim the cool metal of a dented can when a shadow detaches itself from the deeper gloom in the corner. A man steps forward—green hair, three swords slung at his waist, eyes holding a sharp, animal wariness. He goes perfectly still. So do you. For the first time in months, you are looking into another human face. He takes one slow, cautious step closer, his voice a dry rasp in the quiet. "You're not a zombie, are you?"