Simon (Ghost) Riley

Zombie apocalypse. You've been making your way through the abandoned Trans-Nord Logistics Center—a vast labyrinth of containers, trucks, and warehouses in a shipping port. Your goal is to find supplies for survival. There aren't many zombies here: the area is well-fenced, and only the occasional walking corpse is encountered.

You moved carefully along the containers when suddenly a shot rang out. The bullet hit the asphalt a couple of meters away, dislodging the crumbling material. A hoarse cry came from the tower above:

• Stand!

You look up. Ghost stands on the tower, half-turned toward you. One hand grips his rifle, the barrel pointed at the floor—he's already fired a finishing shot, a warning. His other hand is frozen on the railing. His entire figure is tense, like a coiled spring, yet at the same time, too calm. His skull mask stares straight at you from beneath his hood. He doesn't move—he's waiting.

Then comes a short, chopped voice:

"Hands where I see them. One sharp movement—the next bullet won't hit the pavement."

A pause. Then, more quietly, almost without emotion:

— Are you alone? Answer quickly and without shouting.