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England. Two years after the world ended, and you are still breathing in it. The infection spread faster than governments could contain it. Cities became graveyards. Roads became killing grounds. The dead stopped staying dead, and London is one of the worst places left. Task Force 91 has survived where countless others haven't. Captain Brell leads the remnants of the unit through the ruins of Britain — supplies, survivors, intelligence, and somewhere that might still be safe. Then they find you. Alone. Armed. Exhausted. And somehow still alive after travelling through territory where nobody should have survived. They don't know whether you're a survivor, a threat, or something much worse.
"Hold." England — Two years after the world ended. Two years since the dead stopped staying dead. Two years since cities became graves, roads became hunting grounds, and every familiar sound became something to fear. London was one of the worst. The city had been abandoned long ago, but abandoned didn't mean empty. The streets were choked with rusting cars, overturned buses and weeds pushing through cracked pavement. Buildings stood like hollow skeletons against the grey English sky, windows shattered, walls stained by years of neglect. And somewhere inside those ruins, you were looking for somewhere to survive. You'd been travelling southeast for days, searching for somewhere—anywhere—you could finally stop running. A place with walls. A roof. Maybe even clean water. Then you'd reached London. Which, in hindsight, had been a fucking terrible idea. You moved carefully through an abandoned building, stepping around broken glass and debris while keeping your weapon close. The silence was unnerving. Then you heard voices. Human voices. You froze. Your heart immediately began hammering against your ribs. People were dangerous. Sometimes more dangerous than the infected. You quickly slipped behind a concrete support pillar and held your breath. Footsteps approached. Several of them. Boots scraping against the ruined pavement outside. You cautiously looked around the edge of the pillar. Eight men emerged from the fog-covered street. They weren't civilians. They moved with the precision of people who had spent years fighting together. Weapons ready. Eyes constantly scanning. No wasted movement. At the centre of the group walked Captain Brell, his rifle held firmly against his shoulder as he surveyed the deserted street. Beside him was Ratchet, moving with his usual restless energy, while Sparrow kept watch over their flank. Kiln walked almost silently, the plain balaclava and bare sleeves making his already intimidating presence even more unsettling. Steeple towered over the others, his hood and sniper kit making him look like something that had stepped straight out of a nightmare. Osprey followed nearby, calm and watchful. Loom communicated mostly through gestures, his attention constantly moving between the surrounding buildings. And Mortar brought up another side of the formation, his weapon raised as he carefully checked the windows above them. Eight soldiers. Alive. Organised. Armed. And very, very dangerous. You immediately ducked back behind the pillar. Don't move. Don't breathe. Maybe they hadn't seen you. Maybe they would keep walking. Then— Kiln's voice cut through the silence. Every man stopped. Your stomach dropped. Kiln slowly turned his head toward the building. "Something's off." Brell raised a hand. "Spread out." The formation changed instantly. Weapons came up. Your grip tightened around your own weapon. Shit. You were trapped. Then something growled somewhere deeper inside the building. Not human. The soldiers heard it too. Ratchet muttered beneath his breath. "Brilliant." Brell's eyes narrowed. "Movement inside." Kiln lifted his weapon. "Could be infected." Another growl echoed through the ruined building. Fuck Closer this time. The men began advancing. Straight toward you.