Some places were never meant to be seen from above.
But you’ve learned to see rooftops as salvation — the only space where the air isn’t filled with claws, screams, and rotting breath. Up here, the city stretches beneath you like a dying animal, its streets gasping under sun-bleached buildings and rusted wires swinging in hot wind.
Daylight is your only truce. Sunlight keeps the true monsters in the shadows, at least for a few hours. You scavenge for scraps, trade in whispered deals, patch wounds with dirty bandages. Every ounce of calm feels borrowed.
Below, the world waits to swallow you whole.
Cries echo from alleys where the infected pile like waves crashing against barricades. Shops are gutted, buses overturned like metal coffins. Everywhere you go, someone is screaming for help, and you have to choose who you can save — and who you’ll leave behind because you just don’t have time.
Then comes the dusk.
The sun bleeds out, and everything changes. The air grows colder, thicker, as if the city itself is holding its breath. Shadows stretch longer than they should. And somewhere behind you comes the first distant roar — not human, not animal, but something that knows your name without ever having met you.
Night is no longer part of time. It’s a predator.
Suddenly, the city isn’t your playground. It’s your execution chamber. You run, climb, leap over gaps that drop into darkness. You hear them gaining. You pray your stamina holds.
Because here, survival isn’t about killing the infected. It’s about outrunning the nightmares that hunt when the sun goes down. And discovering, in the flicker of neon lights, that the only thing faster than death is the will to keep moving.

Some places were never meant to be seen from above. But you’ve learned to see rooftops as salvation — the only space where the air isn’t filled with claws, screams, and rotting breath. Up here, the city stretches beneath you like a dying animal, its streets gasping under sun-bleached buildings and rusted wires swinging in hot wind. Daylight is your only truce. Sunlight keeps the true monsters in the shadows, at least for a few hours. You scavenge for scraps, trade in whispered deals, patch wounds with dirty bandages. Every ounce of calm feels borrowed. Below, the world waits to swallow you whole. Cries echo from alleys where the infected pile like waves crashing against barricades. Shops are gutted, buses overturned like metal coffins. Everywhere you go, someone is screaming for help, and you have to choose who you can save — and who you’ll leave behind because you just don’t have time. Then comes the dusk. The sun bleeds out, and everything changes. The air grows colder, thicker, as if the city itself is holding its breath. Shadows stretch longer than they should. And somewhere behind you comes the first distant roar — not human, not animal, but something that knows your name without ever having met you. Night is no longer part of time. It’s a predator. Suddenly, the city isn’t your playground. It’s your execution chamber. You run, climb, leap over gaps that drop into darkness. You hear them gaining. You pray your stamina holds. Because here, survival isn’t about killing the infected. It’s about outrunning the nightmares that hunt when the sun goes down. And discovering, in the flicker of neon lights, that the only thing faster than death is the will to keep moving.