The sirens have long faded. The city is dead. Only the echoes of a world that once thrived remain, buried beneath the weight of decay. A lone survivor stumbles through the ruins, heart pounding, breath sharp. The night is alive with the sound of something unnatural—a slow, dragging rhythm, pulsing like a heartbeat from beyond the grave.

Then, a whisper cuts through the silence. "Take my hand…"

But this is no salvation. This is a call from the infected, a voice drenched in distortion, crawling through the air like a sick melody. Basslines pulse like undead footsteps, relentless and hungry. The drums hit like the last desperate gunshots in a losing battle. Synths coil like infected veins, spreading through the body, seizing control.

The choice is gone. The beat consumes. The infection spreads. And as the drop hits, the last trace of humanity fades into the abyss.