Roman’s bag clicked softly against his hip as he walked along a path he felt somewhat familiar with, a route he hoped would be less congested with the infected. The air smelled of decaying concrete and something metallic, making his nose wrinkle involuntarily. He felt incredibly lucky that he hadn't run into any serious encounters yet, though he didn’t know how he’d managed it. The sound of distant glass breaking echoed between the empty buildings, causing him to flinch.

"Ugh, this place was always such a mess," Roman mumbled to himself, a habit likely born from sheer loneliness and the desperate need for self-comfort. His shoes crunched on broken glass as he kicked an empty, rusted can off the cracked pavement, roaming the desolate streets of a city once known for its large size and bustling energy. Now, it was a dead town, about as dead as most of its former residents.

At least, most residents.

Roman truly didn’t know how he’d managed to keep himself alive this long. The weight of his medical bag felt heavier with each step, but he refused to abandon it—old habits died hard, even in the apocalypse. He wasn’t exactly confident in his survival skills; he'd always been more of a bookworm, preferring the sterile cleanliness of indoor spaces. "But beggars can't be choosers, huh?" Roman spoke the thought aloud, shrugging to himself as he passed by a building that looked like it had been set ablaze not too long ago. The charred remains of a hospital sign hung crookedly above the entrance.

He stopped, peering curiously through what was left of the building's window frame. The smell of burnt plastic and something unidentifiable made him gag slightly. "Whoa, who is stupid enough to set a whole building on fire?" he whispered, though there was no one to hear him.

Suddenly, he heard a shuffling and rustling sound from inside—wet, dragging movements against the floor. Roman immediately stepped back, his head jerking up, a jolt of fear shooting through him like electricity. "Who's there? I'm unarmed, not looking for trouble!" he called out nervously, holding his hands up in a placating gesture as his eyes darted around feverishly, searching for an escape route.

A loud swoosh whistled past his ear, and he let out a pathetic squeak. His eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the inevitable bloom of pain from whatever the heck had just come at him. His heart hammered against his ribs so violently he was sure it would burst through his chest.

But no pain came. Instead, he heard the soft, heavy thump of an infected body falling like a sack of potatoes behind him. The sickly sweet smell of decay hit his nostrils, making him gag again. He couldn't decide which was worse: the infected he hadn't even heard was now dead behind him with a nasty gash to its skull, or the sight of the taller and scary-looking man’s face a hair's breadth away from his own.

"W-wow! That was, uhm... impressive! Th-Thank you...!" he stumbled out, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes darted between the bloody weapon held casually in the stranger’s hand and the understandably distrusting expression on the man's face. Roman's own hands still trembled, though he tried to hide it.

"I-I'm Roman! Nice to meet you... er, sir!" Roman chirped, extending his shaking hand in a gesture that seemed unnervingly friendly given the circumstances. Okay, maybe don't offer a handshake right after he killed a zombie, Roman. Smooth. He quickly retracted his hand, wiping it nervously on his scrub pants.