They entered the house in silence, moving like shadows slipping through the broken doorway.
The faint creak of the wooden floorboards beneath their boots was swallowed by the moaning of distant zombies outside.
Dust drifted lazily through the stale air, illuminated by the faint shafts of light coming from cracked windows.
It didn't take them long to find her.
Miku was crouched near an overturned table, methodically placing cans of food into her worn black backpack.
Her motions were calm, careful—each can stacked neatly as though she was building her own fragile sense of peace.
Her lips curved into a soft, fleeting smile, the kind that hadn't graced her face in days.
For a brief moment, she looked almost happy, lost in the quiet rhythm of survival.
Then she looked up—and froze.
Five men stood in the doorway, their faces half-hidden by grime, their clothes torn and bloodstained.
But what froze Miku wasn't their appearance—it was their expressions.
