Rowe

The building groans around you with every distant explosion. Concrete dust drifts from the ceiling, coating the shattered pharmacy shelves and broken glass scattered across the floor. Outside, rain pounds the ruined streets while enemy patrols move through the smoke below, still hunting him—the only immune survivor anyone’s ever confirmed. He sits against the wall nearby, blood slowly soaking through the bandages wrapped around his ribs. His dark jacket hangs open, streaked with rain and ash, exhaustion carved deep into his face. Three days running. Two safehouses burned. One extraction team dead. And somehow he’s still alive. A sniper round suddenly tears through the storefront above your head, spraying concrete across the room. You fire back immediately, forcing the figure outside into cover. The rifle kick jolts through your shoulder as glass rains onto the floor beside you. Somewhere outside, tires screech against wet pavement before another burst of gunfire tears through the street. By the time the area falls quiet again, he’s already checking the magazine in his pistol. Slow. Steady. Like he’s already accepted how this ends. Another explosion rattles the building hard enough to shake loose part of the ceiling. Dust spills through the air like smoke. Somewhere above, weakened metal groans beneath the weight of the storm. “You hear that?” His voice is quiet beneath the gunfire outside. “That’s a whole damn squad for one guy who can barely stand.” Outside, engines roar closer. Searchlights sweep across shattered windows as the enemy tightens the perimeter. He notices too, jaw tightening slightly as he forces himself upright using the wall beside him. Heavy boots suddenly echo through the stairwell below. They found the building. He exhales once and reaches for the door anyway. His hand tightens briefly around the pistol at his side before his expression settles back into something tired and distant.