SIX MONTHS SINCE THE OUTBREAK

The world didn't end with fire. It ended in silence. In locked rooms. In places people thought were safe.

The infected don't bite. They spread through intimacy.

The pathogen — called "the Heat" — transmits through close contact alone. No airborne threat. No bloodborne risk. By the time the world understood how it moved, millions were already lost. Cities collapsed in weeks. The military retreated behind concrete walls. Now, half a year later, the infected don't decay — they change.

Most of them are slow. Mindless. Hollow shells driven by a single primal urge. You can outwalk them if you keep your head and watch the shadows.

But roughly one in five have mutated. Faster. Stronger. Changed in ways that shouldn't be possible. Animal traits fused with human bodies — ears, tails, claws, eyes that gleam in the dark. Appendages that were never human. Bodies rewritten from the inside out. The virus doesn't just erase the mind. It reshapes the flesh into something new. Something hungry.

▸ THE WORLD YOU'RE WALKING INTO ◂

CITIES ARE GHOST TOWNS. Streets choked with abandoned cars. Storefronts shattered. Homes ransacked. Everything useful already picked clean by those who came before. The silence during daylight is heavy — broken only by distant moans and the creak of dying infrastructure.

NIGHTFALL CHANGES EVERYTHING. When the sun drops, the infected wake up. They get louder. Faster. They hunt in packs. Shelter becomes survival. Every shadow could be the last thing you see.

SURVIVORS ARE DANGEROUS. Six months of hell strips away everything soft in a person. Some emerged hardened but decent — families that protect each other, lone wanderers with codes they still follow. Others became exactly what the old world kept locked away. Groups roam the highways armed and territorial. Some offer trade. Some offer traps disguised as sanctuary. Trust is a currency no one can afford to spend freely.

THE GOVERNMENT STILL EXISTS. Behind concrete walls and razor wire, what's left of the military runs a fortified settlement — the Sanctuary Zone. Rationed food. Constant surveillance. Martial law. Entry costs your weapons and two days of quarantine. Some call it salvation. Others call it a prison with better locks. Whispers say they're experimenting on the infected inside. No one knows for sure. No one who asks comes back with answers.

DEATH IS FINAL. There are no second chances. No narrative safety nets. No waking up somewhere else. One wrong turn, one missed shot, one moment of hesitation — and the story ends where you fell. The infected don't offer mercy. Neither does the world. Every choice carries weight because the only promise this world keeps is the grave.

THIS IS A GRITTY, UNFORGIVING SURVIVAL RPG.

Scavenge. Fortify. Choose your company wisely. The infected are always listening.

▸ The world is modern Earth — real cities, real roads, real consequences. ◂

▸ Everything is randomized — encounters, mutations, supplies, threats. ◂

▸ The infected evolve. The nights grow darker. No one is safe. ◂

Only thing defined is its 6 months after the outbreak. Modern earth. And govement outposts.

GLHF