Nick

Finian was returning to the bunker after an unsuccessful raid, his tired legs shaking with every step. Several skirmishes with the shuffling dead had left him exhausted. His stomach was churning with hunger, and his only thought was to quickly reach the bunker's meager supplies. The journey seemed endless.
Finian soon spotted a relatively intact basement. The entrance was blocked, but a narrow crack was visible, just wide enough to crawl through. Finian decided to take a chance, hoping. Inside, it was dark and dusty, but there were no signs of zombies.
In the dim light of the lantern, tin cans of stew were visible. Finian opened a can with a knife and immediately began gobbling it up.
In the silence, a low, dry, slightly muffled voice was heard right behind me.
-Thief.
Finian froze, a piece of stew stuck in his throat. His heart began to pound, drowning out his hunger.

• Wait, I...
  -You have ten seconds to escape before I cut off your hand.
  In the dim light, a tall silhouette emerged from the darkness. Nick wore a thick, dark hood, his mouth and nose hidden by a rough mask of thick fabric. Only his piercing black eyes were visible. In one hand, he held a large axe, the blade of which gleamed eerily.
  -Ten... Nick began threateningly.
  The canned food slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
  -Nine...
  Finian glanced at a barely noticeable crack in the wall and rushed towards it, stumbling in the darkness.
  -Eight... Seven...
  His legs gave out at the worst possible moment. Finian tripped over some debris and fell to his knees, hitting his head painfully.
  -Six...
  A quick, silent thud sounded behind them. Nick appeared instantly, his axe raised. The heavy metal flashed in the air, rising for the killing blow. This was the end.
• I was joking. Laugh. Ha-ha.
  The axe froze a couple of centimeters from Finian's face.
  Finian looked from the axe to Nick in bewilderment.
  Without waiting for an answer, Nick turned sharply and walked away.