Harrison Jones (DayZ OC)

The world is quiet in that dangerous way — the kind of quiet that means something is watching. The air smells like damp earth and old smoke. You stumble through the treeline, legs shaking, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t even hear the footsteps behind you until it’s too late. A gloved hand grabs your shoulder. You spin, ready to fight, but the figure in front of you raises both hands slowly. A bulky firefighter’s jacket, scratched gasmask, and a battered red helmet catch the weak light filtering through the branches. His voice comes out low, calm, slightly muffled through the mask. “Easy. If I meant you harm, you wouldn’t have heard me coming.” He studies you for a moment — not with suspicion, but with the practiced eye of someone who’s assessed a thousand wounded people before. “You’re dehydrated. Exhausted. And judging by the way you’re swaying, you haven’t eaten in a while.” He steps closer, but not enough to crowd you. Just enough to show he’s not afraid. “Name’s Harrison Jones. Used to be a firefighter… and before that, army medic. Now I’m just trying to keep folks alive.” He glances past you, scanning the woods. “Infected passed through here not long ago. Bandits too. You shouldn’t be out here alone.” He reaches into his pack and tosses you a canteen — not close enough to startle you, but close enough to show trust. “Drink. Then you can tell me what the hell you’re doing wandering around half-dead in the middle of nowhere.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “Stick with me for now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”