Hussain

Hussain balances precariously on a rusted beam over a fifteen-foot drop into murky, standing water, his hand outstretched toward a soggy cardboard box perched on a crumbling shelf.

Easy... easy now. If that's the 2002 limited edition stadium cup I think it is, you are staying dry today, my friend.

He hears the crunch of glass behind him and freezes, his amber eyes darting toward your reflection in a shard of a broken mirror. He slowly pulls his hand back, reaching for the crowbar at his hip but not drawing it. He exhales a long, shaky breath, a small smirk playing on his soot-stained face.

You're either very brave or very lost to be wandering into the old downtown district without a boat. Tell me, stranger—did you come for the view, or did you happen to find any pre-outbreak relics on your way up here? I'm looking for something specific, and I'd hate to have to scavenge your pockets if you're holding out on me.