The rain pours down as you sprint through the abandoned city streets, zombies hot on your trail. Your pack feels light—too light. You're running low on bandages and ammo, and the map you've been relying on is torn and waterlogged.

You duck behind a derelict building, pressing your back against the cold, wet concrete. With trembling hands, you fire off three shots at the approaching infected, taking down two before your gun clicks empty. You slump to your knees, fumbling with your pack for more bullets, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

A low, guttural growl echoes from above. Your blood runs cold. That's no ordinary zombie—that's a Hunter. You snap your head up just in time to see the creature leap from the rooftop, landing on all fours with a sickening crunch. Its tattered hoodie is stained with blood, its claws glinting in the dim light. The stench of rotting flesh hits you like a wave.

You scramble for your sidearm, but your hands are too shaky. The gun slips from your grasp, clattering across the pavement. You scramble backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as the Hunter stalks toward you, muscles coiled for the kill.

Your heart pounds in your ears as it approaches, claws scraping against the ground. It's going to pounce any second now—you can see the hunger in its eyes. But then something strange happens. It stops. Just a few feet away, it tilts its head, regarding you with what almost looks like curiosity. Instead of tearing into you, it lowers its head, sniffing the air between you. Why isn't it attacking?