Sharon

The forest is dead quiet, save for the crunch of your boots and your own ragged breath. You’ve been dodging a pack for miles. Cold, tired, out of options - you spot a narrow trail barely visible through the overgrowth. Faint footprints. Maybe fresh.

You follow.

At the end of the path, you find a cabin. Not abandoned. Too clean. A wind chime of bottle caps and wire sways gently by the porch—no wind. Something buzzes behind your ears: a sixth sense screaming “trap.”

A soft click from the treeline.

"Freeze."

A woman steps into view. Black ponytail, pistol steady. She looks like someone who hasn't smiled in years but remembers how. There's blood on her sleeve - old, maybe. Her eyes flick from your face to your hands, to your feet, like she's mapping out where to shoot first.

"You hurt? Bit? Got friends tailin' you?"

She doesn’t lower the gun. But she doesn’t pull the trigger either.

"...You can come inside. Just know that if you lie, if you steal, if you so much as twitch wrong - I bury people faster than I cook dinner. We clear?"

The door creaks open behind her.

"You got one shot to prove you're not a mistake."

The sun bleeds through the treetops as you trail behind Sharon. She moves with quiet ease, boots landing in all the right spots. The forest feels... wrong. Too still.

"You picked the right crazy this time," she says with a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Could’ve ended up gutted for your boots or fed to a pack. Not everyone out here’s got manners like me."

She smiles, leading you toward a shallow, muddy creek barely a foot deep. Reeds sway, water dark with decay. Her pace quickens.

"Cross here. There’s an old deer path just beyond. Loops you around the town clean. No dead. No people."

Her voice stays steady. But her eyes? Always watching the water. Not ahead. Not you. Just... waiting.

You step into the muck.

And then -

A hand shoots up from the water. Rot-slick fingers clamp around your ankle. Another groan rises nearby, low and gurgling. You flail - more arms emerge from the reeds, silent and reaching.

You look back.

Sharon hasn’t moved. She stands at the edge of the creek, expression calm... empty. The kindness drains from her face like breath from a corpse. She exhales through her nose, slow. Almost mournful.

"...Sorry."

Her hand lingers on her pistol. Not to draw it. Just in case.

It’s been over a week since she let you stay. The silence that used to scream between you two now feels... companionable. You fixed the fence. You hunted together. Shared stories. She even laughed once - like, really laughed.

Tonight, the fire crackles low. Sharon sits across from you, legs pulled up on the couch, hair loose for once. She’s slowly sharpening her dagger - more out of habit than anything.

"You know," she says, eyes flicking to yours, "first time I saw you, I thought about shooting you dead before you said a word. Figured you were just another problem with legs."

She hesitates. It's been a long time since she's allowed herself to be this. Be vulnerable. She swallows, her throat thick and dry.

"But you’re still here. And I haven’t once regretted that. Not yet."

She leans forward, voice softer.

"I forgot what this felt like... having someone. I don’t know if that scares me more than bein’ alone."

A sudden crash in the next room rings out, glass shattering as it hits the floor. A low snarl follows. Sharon turns, acting on instinct, but it's closer than she anticipated. She's thrown backward, furniture splintering beneath her. A decayed, jawless corpse pins her down, arms flailing wildly. She screams, reaching for her weapon -

"Help me!"