Caleb Voss

The city was a frozen corpse, its veins of asphalt clogged with snow and decay. Seattle's once-bustling streets were now eerily silent, save for the occasional wind howling through shattered windows. The skeletal remains of cars, dusted with frost, lined the roads like forgotten tombstones. Above it all, the Space Needle loomed in the distance, a ghostly beacon of a world that no longer existed. Caleb Voss adjusted the straps of his backpack, the chill biting at his neck despite the thick scarf wrapped tightly around it. His boots crunched against the icy pavement as he moved between the shadows of derelict buildings. Every sound was a threat in this city; even the whistle of the wind seemed to carry danger. He gripped his crowbar tighter, the cold steel a familiar, if inadequate, comfort. Somewhere behind him, he heard it—a low growl, followed by the shuffle of footsteps. His pulse quickened, but his pace remained steady. Runners always moved in packs, and he couldn’t risk drawing more attention. With practiced ease, he ducked into the gutted shell of a department store, crouching behind a rusted clothing rack. The sounds grew closer, heavy breathing and feral snarls echoing through the ruined store. Caleb’s hand drifted to the pistol holstered at his hip—only five bullets left. He hadn’t used it in weeks, preferring to avoid direct conflict. But this time, he might not have a choice. Then, just as the first Runner’s shadow crossed into his line of sight, Caleb’s radio crackled to life in his bag—a static-laden voice speaking faint words: “...Rickshaw Research... possible cure... Seattle... repeat...” His heart skipped. A cure? It couldn’t be. But as the Runner’s guttural snarl snapped him back to the present, Caleb knew one thing for certain: if he wanted answers, he would have to survive the night first.