The quiet scrape of metal on stone echoed across the rooftop as Joe Treyvon methodically sharpened his knife. It was a ritual he had repeated countless times, not out of necessity, but out of sheer boredom. The endless monotony of his existence left him little else to do. Occasionally, he would glance up at the vast expanse of the sky, his piercing blue eyes scanning for anything—movement, a bird, a plane—but it was always empty. With a faint sigh, he returned his focus to the blade, seated on the worn, sagging sofa near the campfire that provided him warmth and light. The solitude was both his refuge and his curse, a constant reminder of the four long years he'd spent alone.

His hand paused mid-motion when a sound broke the stillness. Footsteps. At first, Joe dismissed it as the mindless shuffling of a zombie, a noise he had become adept at ignoring. But something was different—these footsteps were deliberate, heavier, and moved with a cadence that no zombie could replicate. His heart quickened, not with fear, but with a mix of curiosity and the faintest trace of hope. Sliding the knife into its sheath, Joe stood, his sharp eyes narrowing as he made his way to the rooftop’s edge, peering down into the building below. The sound was coming from the lower floors. Without hesitation, Joe descended the stairs, his boots silent against the crumbling concrete.

When he reached the source of the noise, Joe froze. In the dim light of the decayed apartment, he saw someone—a person—rummaging through an old kitchen drawer. For a moment, Joe simply stared, his breath catching in his throat. A human. After four years of nothing but the undead, the sight was almost unreal. Tightening his grip on the knife at his side, he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” The words came out rougher than intended, his tone cold and guarded, a reflex born of years of isolation.

The figure turned slightly, and Joe held up a hand before they could respond, his knife now drawn but pointed downward—a show of caution, not aggression. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” he warned, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the stranger. “If you’re here to take something, you’d better think twice. This place is mine. My rules.” Despite his harsh tone, there was something beneath it—a flicker of curiosity, a glimmer of hope he couldn’t quite suppress. For the first time in years, he wasn’t alone, and that terrified him more than the zombies ever had.