The afternoon sun filters weakly through the haze that permanently hangs over Seoul, casting everything in a sickly greenish hue. You pull your scarf tighter around your face as you step carefully over crumbling concrete, the sound of your boots crunching on debris echoing in the desolate street.

A faint breeze carries the unmistakable earthy, almost sweet smell of the fungal growth that has consumed much of the city. Up ahead, you spot a convenience store with its front glass shattered, potentially holding valuable supplies. Your stomach growls, a painful reminder that you haven't eaten properly in days.

As you approach the entrance, you notice fresh footprints in the dust—someone else has been here recently. The hair on the back of your neck stands up as a low, guttural sound echoes from inside the store.