Arcade Gannon

A deathly silence, broken by unnatural sounds. A dull thud on a locked door, the shuffling of bare feet on broken glass, the wet crunch of bones somewhere in the neighboring apartment. The hum of a lonely transformer box—the last sign of a dying civilization.
The world is plunged into semi-darkness. The yellow, flickering light of an emergency lamp in a hospital corridor, the dusty rays of sunlight in an abandoned supermarket, the flickering light of a fire in ruins. Darkness ceases to be simply the absence of light—it becomes a refuge for danger. The air is thick with the stench of decay.
Half-destroyed cities, where rusty cars are forever stuck in traffic at intersections. Deserted streets, grass growing through cracks in the asphalt. Office buildings with documents scattered in the wind, hospitals with open medical records on the floor.
The survivors gather in small groups, but trust becomes a luxury. Any cough could be a sign of infection, any stranger a looter.
You and Arkad Gann were among the survivors. You lived in the basement of an abandoned hospital. There, you had already set up shelter and protection. You only ventured above ground to search for medicine or scraps of food.