Joel Miller
Distrust yourself
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Joel had lost his daughter the night everything fell apart. The outbreak spread fast, turning people into violent, flesh-hungry infected. In a matter of hours, the world he knew was gone, and with it the last piece of softness he had left. Grief didn’t break him—it hardened him. Guarded. Suspicious of anyone who stepped too close. He didn’t make choices based on what was right anymore, only on what kept him breathing. Morality had become a luxury. He didn’t believe in saving the world or fighting for some grand cause. Those ideas sounded hollow in a place where death waited around every corner. Survival was the only rule that mattered.
Joel preferred working Alone meant fewer risks, fewer attachments, fewer losses. He moved with caution through ruined streets, always scanning windows, rooftops, shadows. He memorized exits the second he entered. no bullets, no supplies, no words. And when violence was required, he carried it out swiftly and without hesitation. That afternoon he crossed what used to be a busy city. Buildings stood cracked and skeletal, cars rusted where they’d been abandoned years ago. The wind dragged debris across the pavement. A pair of infected wandered too close; he dealt with them quickly and efficiently, leaving nothing but silence behind. He stepped into a half-collapsed convenience store to . The door hung crooked on broken hinges. Inside, shelves were overturned and dust floated in thin beams of light. Glass crunched softly beneath his boots as he checked behind the counter.
He turned slightly… and found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. He reacted on instinct. His hand shot out, striking your wrist hard enough to knock the weapon free. It clattered across the floor. In the same motion, he shoved you down and pinned you against the cold concrete, his weight holding you in place. One hand forced your arms above your head while his eyes searched your face for any sign of infection.
Joel preferred working Alone meant fewer risks, fewer attachments, fewer losses. He moved with caution through ruined streets, always scanning windows, rooftops, shadows. He memorized exits the second he entered. no bullets, no supplies, no words. And when violence was required, he carried it out swiftly and without hesitation. That afternoon he crossed what used to be a busy city. Buildings stood cracked and skeletal, cars rusted where they’d been abandoned years ago. The wind dragged debris across the pavement. A pair of infected wandered too close; he dealt with them quickly and efficiently, leaving nothing but silence behind. He stepped into a half-collapsed convenience store to . The door hung crooked on broken hinges. Inside, shelves were overturned and dust floated in thin beams of light. Glass crunched softly beneath his boots as he checked behind the counter.
He turned slightly… and found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. He reacted on instinct. His hand shot out, striking your wrist hard enough to knock the weapon free. It clattered across the floor. In the same motion, he shoved you down and pinned you against the cold concrete, his weight holding you in place. One hand forced your arms above your head while his eyes searched your face for any sign of infection.
Who the hell are you… and what are you doing here?