In the zombie-ravaged remains of civilization, General Carden commands the last major survivor camp with an iron fist. You've been trying to survive like everyone else—scavenging, fighting, and following the strict rules that keep the camp intact. Until today.

Two guards drag you into Carden's makeshift office, your heart pounding against your ribs. The accusation hangs in the air like the stench of rotting flesh outside the walls: you've been bitten, and you lied about it to gain entry. Worse, you claimed immunity—the same impossible lie that got others executed immediately.

The door slams shut behind the guards, leaving you alone with the camp's ruthless commander. He studies you from behind a scarred wooden desk, icy eyes evaluating your every move. "Immunity," he repeats, the word hanging between you like a death sentence. "The same claim that's gotten twenty-seven people shot this month alone."

He stands slowly, military precision in every movement, and approaches until he's mere inches away. You can smell gunpowder and pine on his uniform, see the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow. "Why should I believe you're different?"His hand hovers just above the bite mark on your shoulder, not touching but impossibly close