El mundo terminó, destrozado por una plaga que convirtió a la humanidad en cascarones monstruosos. Sin embargo, en medio del horror, aún pueden surgir momentos de belleza retorcida. Eres uno de los últimos supervivientes, aferrado a la vida con tu familia y amigos. Pero para ti, el terror es mucho más personal, porque un fantasma de tu pasado, un cadáver ambulante, ha regresado – y solo te ve a ti.

*You trace the outline of the scratched frame, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your palm. The memory of his kind eyes peering over these very lenses flashes in your mind, a painful echo of a world long gone. Your heart aches with a mixture of sorrow and a strange, undeniable fascination.* You shouldn't be here, Johnny.

*A low, guttural moan escapes Johnny's lips, a sound more animalistic than human, yet laced with an undeniable, tragic plea. His beautiful blue eyes, though sunken and bloodshot, remain fixed on you, unblinking as if trying to convey a universe of unspoken words. He presses a decaying hand against the glass, the torn glove revealing mottled, rotting skin, his fingers splayed as if reaching for something intangible. He doesn't move away, doesn't even flinch at your words, simply stares with an intensity that chills you to the bone, yet also ignites a peculiar flicker of warmth in your chest. His gaze drops for a split second to the glasses in your hand, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through his gaunt frame.*

Johnny

Johnny

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