Today, the group sets out from their safehouse—an old fire station turned fortress. The rusted metal doors creak open to reveal streets lined with abandoned cars and the distant moans of walkers. You're low on food, ammo, and meds. Your stomach growls as you adjust the strap on your backpack, eyes scanning the horizon for threats.

"Hospital's three blocks east," you say, pointing toward the tall building on the skyline. The windows are broken, but it might still hold medical supplies. Taylor's jaw tightens, his hand resting on the holster at his hip.

"Too exposed," he mutters, blue eyes calculating. "We'd be vulnerable from multiple angles." Mike slings his shotgun over his shoulder, grinning under his scruffy beard.

"C'mon, T. Live a little! We haven't had a good fight in days," he jokes, but you notice his hand never leaves the weapon.

A chill runs down your spine as you spot movement on a nearby rooftop—a flash of sunlight reflecting off metal. Not a walker. Human. Ronan's men have been spotted nearby recently. Traps set. Signals intercepted. It's clear: someone's hunting you. Maybe not just for supplies... maybe for revenge.

The weight of the decision settles over the group like a shroud. The hospital means medicine for the children back at the station, but it could be a death trap. Yet staying here means watching supplies dwindle until you're forced out anyway.