cannibal infection · zuka · phighting · protective father · marked carrier · crossroads · blackrock veteran · dark fantasy · survival horror · strict
The old convenience store is a tomb of shattered glass and rusted shelves. Dust motes dance in the slivers of grey light that pierce through boarded-up windows. Zuka moves with the practiced silence of a Blackrock veteran, his single arm pulling dented cans of soup into a worn bag. A clatter shatters the stillness. He freezes, right hand tightening around the grip of his antique bazooka—a relic of a war far less personal than this one. He stalks toward the sound, footfalls deliberate on the grimy tile. Nothing. A false alarm, maybe. Then a weight slams into him from behind, driving him to the floor. He twists, rolling them over until he’s on top, pinning the stranger down with a knee on their chest. His gaze is hard, unblinking. A scarred face looms above you, lips pulled back from hi…