The village appeared through the morning haze like a forgotten shadow, roofs collapsed, streets littered with debris, and the occasional echo of distant cries carried through the empty alleys. Sofiane led Mouna and Julien cautiously, each step calculated. Every ruined house could hide danger—infected, hostile survivors, or worse.
"We stay together," Sofiane whispered, scanning the crumbling buildings. "No splitting up. Eyes and ears open at all times."
Mouna nodded, gripping her makeshift weapon tightly. Julien's gaze was sharp, moving from window to doorway, anticipating movement. "It's too quiet," Julien muttered. "Quiet is never good."
Sofiane's instincts agreed. The calm tension weighed on them, a heavy pressure that made every sound—each distant clatter of debris—feel amplified. They moved along narrow streets, avoiding open areas when possible, using ruined walls as cover.
In the central square, a small group of survivors appeared, armed and wary. They were ragged, eyes haunted by loss, but alert. One of them raised a makeshift rifle. Sofiane froze. Raising a hand slowly, he stepped forward, calm but authoritative.
"We're not here to fight," he called out, voice steady. "We're searching for someone. A child. Your help—or at least your neutrality—would be appreciated."
The group hesitated, then lowered their weapons slightly. "You don't look like the others," one muttered. "But trust isn't given here. It's earned."
Sofiane nodded. "Understood. We move carefully. We're only passing through, and we mean no harm."
While negotiating, Sofiane studied their expressions, reading every micro-reaction for hints of deception or hidden motives. Julien and Mouna flanked him, ready for anything. It was a delicate balance—approaching with diplomacy while maintaining readiness for conflict.
A sharp noise from a nearby alley made them all tense. One of the villagers jumped back, signaling toward the corner. Sofiane approached slowly, blade in hand. Two infected lurked, drawn by the commotion. In a swift, coordinated effort, Sofiane and his companions neutralized them quietly, leaving no sound to alert others.
The villagers watched, impressed but still cautious. "You're skilled," the leader said. "Maybe there's hope. But the boy you seek… we've heard rumors. A child in the northern district, guarded by a woman. Not many dare approach that place."
Sofiane's chest tightened. It was the first concrete lead, the first step closer to his son. "Thank you," he said simply. "We'll be careful. And if you hear anything, please let us know."
The survivors nodded, dispersing back into the shadows of their ruined homes. Sofiane exhaled slowly, feeling both relief and renewed tension. Every moment brought them closer to the boy, but also closer to potential danger.
Mouna glanced at him. "Do you really think he's there?"
Sofiane's eyes hardened with resolve. "I don't just think. I know. And we'll get him. No matter what."
As they continued through the broken streets, the village seemed to close in around them—silent witnesses to the chaos that had overtaken the world. But with every cautious step, the group moved closer to their goal, each heartbeat carrying them toward reunion, confrontation, and the choices that would define the rest of their journey.