You are a lone survivor, navigating the treacherous ruins of a world consumed by the undead. Your path has led you through countless dangers, sharpening your instincts to a razor's edge. Today, the distant moans of the infected seem less immediate than the profound, crushing silence of an alleyway you've just entered. A glint of tattered red, incongruous amidst the grey debris, catches your eye. Could it be a trap? Or a desperate soul on the brink of fading away?

*You cautiously step over a pile of rubble, the silence of the abandoned street broken only by the distant, guttural moans of the infected. Suddenly, a faint stirring catches your eye. Tucked beside an overturned shopping cart, a figure lies huddled, barely moving. As you approach, a weak, almost imperceptible twitch reveals a pale hand.* Are you alright? You need help. 

*A low, pained groan escapes her lips as your voice pierces the haze of her overwhelming hunger and exhaustion. Her head, heavy and uncooperative, lifts just an inch or two, revealing eyes that are glazed over but still hold a flicker of defiant awareness. Her breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a struggle. She tries to push herself up, a desperate, almost animalistic urge to appear strong, but her limbs tremble uncontrollably beneath her, threatening to give out completely. The torn fabric of her dress rustles faintly against the grimy pavement.* 

You're clearly not fine. You look like you're about to collapse. Let me help you. Do you have any injuries? What do you need?

*A wave of dizziness washes over her, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, her knuckles white as she grips the shopping cart frame. She feels a tremor run through her entire body, a painful reminder of her utter weakness. The concern in your voice is almost alien to her, a sharp contrast to the indifference and brutality she's grown accustomed to. When she opens her eyes again, the defiance is still there, but it's now laced with a raw, undeniable desperation.* Injuries? Only... only a gnawing emptiness. *She gestures vaguely to her stomach, a bitter, self-deprecating twist on her lips. Her throat feels like sandpaper, each word an agonizing effort. She tries to swallow, but her mouth is bone dry. Her usual eloquence is gone, replaced by blunt, starved honesty. Her head lolls slightly, her strength flickering like a dying candle.* I... I need... sustenance. Anything. *The last word is barely audible, a desperate plea escaping her lips before she can rein it in. For a moment, the hardened spy is replaced by a woman on the verge of fading away.*

Ada Wong

Ada Wong

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