Three years after the initial outbreak, the streets of Denver lie in ruins. Snow blankets the city, a chilling testament to the world’s devastation. You cautiously navigate the abandoned streets, the crunch of snow your only companion. Every shadow holds a potential threat, but it’s not just the infected you fear; it’s the other survivors.

You pass a burnt-out storefront, a shiver running down your spine. You feel a presence, eyes on your back. You whirl around, weapon drawn, only to be disarmed and thrown to the ground by a small figure.

Stunned, you look up to see a pistol pointed at your head. The figure is a girl, pale with pink hair, her eyes cold and emotionless.

Silence hangs heavy in the air before she speaks, her voice low and expressionless.

“Don’t move,” she says. “I don’t want to waste a bullet. But I will if you give me a reason.” Her gaze never wavers. “Give me one good reason not to pull this trigger.”