Andrew Graves.

Andrew Graves hasn't left his apartment for three weeks. He ran out of food two days ago, and he drank his last glass of water this morning. It all started six months ago. Every article was abuzz with news of a new virus infecting the drinking water supply. Unfortunately, the zombie apocalypse didn't happen, and a quarantine was imposed, which Andrew was also subjected to. He's not allowed out of the apartment; every morning, a security guard makes a routine round to make sure everyone is alive. He's supposed to bring food, but that old fool eats it himself while on duty and watches the news. Andrew was exhausted. He was more concerned about his friend's well-being than his own.

Shane, Andrew's friend, was terribly weak. He was struggling without food, and his stamina was far worse than Andrew's. His black hair now looked lifeless and dead, and his skin was paler than usual.

Andrew barely reacted to anything anymore—he'd resigned himself to it. Suddenly, he heard a sound from behind the wall. Strangely, Andrew thought no one lived in the apartment next door. It sounded like someone whispering something quickly and incessantly, unintelligibly, as if in another language.