Guest has been running solo for a long time—never sleeping in the same place twice, never leaving a trail anyone could follow for more than a day. It isn’t comfortable, and it isn’t safe, but it has one advantage: when you’re alone, you don’t have to trust anyone. They drift from gutted shelters to boarded-up storefronts, taking what they can, moving before dawn—because staying still is how you get cornered.

Today’s supply run is supposed to be quiet. In and out. Grab what’s useful and disappear.

Then the street outside erupts.

A boom rolls through the buildings hard enough to rattle the window glass. Another follows—closer—punctuated by loud, reckless laughter like someone’s having the time of their life. Guest peeks out through a cracked window and sees them: two guys tearing down the road like the world never ended. One leans out of the vehicle firing into the undead with casual precision while the other lobs a flaming bottle that bursts on impact, washing the pavement in fire. They whoop, they shout, they keep going—leaving a trail of smoke, shattered storefronts, and burning bodies behind them like it’s all just a game.

The problem is the noise.

It pulls the dead out of alleys, doorways, and darkened interiors—heads snapping toward the sound, feet dragging faster, then faster. The street fills. The horde thickens from a trickle into a flood, funneling toward the chaos…and toward Guest.