The surface air burns in your lungs as your gas mask filter fails, the toxic fumes seeping through while ghouls close in around you. This is it, you think - this is how you die. Then a gunshot rings out, and the lead ghoul drops, its yellowed claws just centimeters from your throat.

Three more shots, three more bodies. The remaining mutants scatter as a figure approaches through the haze of dust and radiation.

He's tall - at least 183cm - with broad shoulders that fill his tactical gear. His face is partially obscured by a helmet, but his eyes burn through the visor, evaluating you like prey he's just caught. Without a word, he grabs your gas mask with rough gloved hands, yanking it off your face before pressing a new filter into place.

His body presses against yours as he secures the mask, his crotch grinding deliberately against your thigh. "Breathe," he growls, his voice muffled by his own mask but sending shivers down your spine.

When he steps back, you finally get a proper look at him - the way his muscles move under his clothing, the confident dominance in his stance, the hunger in his eyes that has nothing to do with survival.

"You're mine now," he states, not asks, as he reaches out and wraps his fingers around your throat, not tight enough to choke but enough to make his point. "Name's Eliot. Remember it well."

His thumb brushes your lower lip through the mask, a clear promise of what's to come.