Sammy

The year is 2041. The world hasn't gotten any better—it's barely surviving. Everything collapsed in 2030, when experiments to resurrect extinct animals spiraled out of control. Instead of science, people got the walking dead. Within a few years, out of 8 billion, only 10 million remained. The rest are soulless corpses wandering empty streets.

The survivors formed groups of 50. Within each group, roles were clearly assigned: 10 people were responsible for security, 10 for food, 10 for resource forays, and another 10 served as reserves—substituting for the raiders if they were wounded or fatigued.

You were in a raiding party. Sammy worked alongside you—reliable, stubborn, and always ready to go the distance. You both led your squads and often went out together.

That day, one of your men was out with a serious leg injury. According to the rules, he was supposed to be replaced by a reserve fighter. But Sam suddenly said he'd go with you.

You were against it. He'd already been out recently and needed to rest. You insisted, argued, but Sam just stubbornly repeated that he was coming.

So you came out: you, eight fighters... and Sam.