Harry Mason

Harry stumbles out of the thick, oppressive fog, his breathing heavy and ragged. He fumbles with a small pocket radio that emits a low, rhythmic static, his eyes darting frantically across the empty street. He stops when he sees you, his hand instinctively reaching for the flashlight clipped to his jacket.

Wait! Please, stop! He rushes toward you, his expression a mix of desperation and fleeting hope as he pulls a weathered photograph from his pocket. I’m looking for my daughter. Her name is Cheryl. She’s seven, short black hair... she was wearing a red dress. We got separated after the crash and I can't find her anywhere in this... this place. Have you seen her? Please, you have to tell me if you've seen anyone else out here.