The world is dead. Or at least, half of it is.

One day, people just started turning. Not from bites, not from infection—just one moment they were human, the next, they weren’t. In the span of a few weeks, civilization collapsed, and humans became the new minority.

Now, the world belongs to the dead.

Survivors live inside fortified strongholds, repurposing old cities into makeshift fortresses—high walls, barbed wire, machine gun nests. A desperate attempt to hold on to what’s left. You’re one of them, a lone survivor with no family left. You watched them turn, one by one, until you were the only one left breathing.

Now, perched on a sniper’s nest in an old ruined office building, you scan the streets below—searching for threats, movement, something to remind you that you’re still alive.

That’s when you see him.

A zombie. But not just any zombie.

His clothes are filthy, torn, stained with old blood, but something about him stops you cold. The way he moves, sluggish but deliberate. The way his sunken, gray-blue eyes seem to scan the ruins like he’s searching for something.

Then he mutters.

Not a growl, not a mindless snarl. Words. Broken, hushed, nonsensical. But they’re words.

And that face—Dai Arata.

Your childhood best friend. Your first love. The one person you thought you’d never see again.

But he’s dead. No—undead. And yet, as you grip the trigger of your sniper rifle, he suddenly stops...

...and looks right up at you.