The reinforced truck's door creaked shut with a hard metallic slam.Agent 47 reached over, turned the manual lock, and listened as it clicked into place.
His eyes swept across the interior: wire mesh over the windows, welded sheet-metal armor bolted to the sides, barbed wire coiled over the hood like a steel crown of thorns. The vehicle was a survivor — brutal, ugly, and effective.
He adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the back seat.There — wedged between a rusted toolbox and an empty duffel — was a single fuel canister.
He leaned back, unscrewed the cap slightly.
Gasoline.
Useful.
The truck rumbled to life beneath his hands. A low, throaty growl that echoed through the quiet ruins of a dead city.
While the truck crept down the road, the Nexus System flickered into view across the windshield, a faint hologram following his line of sight without obstructing it.
[NEXUS SYSTEM — STAT POINTS AVAILABLE: 20]
STATS
Strength: 124Agility: 132Endurance: 119Reflex: 129Perception: 127Intelligence: 118Willpower: 130
Free Stat Allocation Available
Without hesitation, 47 began calculating. His brain was a machine.
+5 Reflex – for precision timing.+5 Agility – for movement flow.+5 Endurance – this world demanded longevity.+5 Perception – to see death before it reached him.
[Points Allocated — Confirmed]
He felt it immediately.Not a rush of adrenaline — but refinement. A machine getting even quieter. Even sharper.
The snowline began to approach. Pine trees coated in white. The bridge up ahead was unmistakable — half-eaten by decay, snow hanging on its rusting beams. Beyond it lay Jackson, according to the system's map.
That's when he saw them.
At first, just shapes in the distance. Slumped, unmoving. At least seventeen, maybe twenty.
Then the truck's engine let out a soft rev as he climbed an incline.
And the shapes twitched.
One stood.
Then another.
And another.
Infected.Runners. Two Clickers.
47's eyes flicked left — to the duffel bag full of rifles and gear he'd taken off the FEDRA patrol.
He cut the engine and opened the door.
Snow crunched beneath his oxfords.
In one swift motion, he slung a semi-auto rifle over his shoulder, unwrapped the sling from the shotgun, and holstered his Silverballers across his chest rig.
He had ten seconds before they reached him.
He used five.
The first wave came — six runners screeching as they bounded down the snow-covered road.
47 raised the semi-auto, braced it tight, and let off three short bursts.Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
Three down.
He pivoted, dropped to one knee, and took out the fourth with a controlled double-shot to the chest and head.
He threw the rifle aside the moment the clip clicked empty and pulled the shotgun from his back.
Boom — one runner's torso exploded.
Boom — another dropped mid-sprint, legs vaporized from the knee down.
One clicker was close. Too close.
47 holstered the shotgun in one motion and drew a machete from his belt. He turned, sidestepped its lunge, and slammed the blade into its neck, twisted, and used the force to drag it down before stomping its head flat against a broken curb.
The snow turned red.
The second clicker shrieked behind him — but too late.
47 spun, tossed a small metal tire iron from his belt, and embedded it in the creature's temple with a bone-splitting crunch.
Still moving.
He drew one Silverballer, walked toward it, and put a single round into its eye at close range.
It collapsed like a dropped puppet.
A new group was approaching — seven of them, spreading wide.
47 didn't give them the chance.
He dove back to the truck, pulled out a bolt-action rifle with a long scope, climbed onto the hood in one fluid motion.
He didn't need the scope — but it helped when he wanted to make a point.
One infected went down with a clean shot through the temple.
Another got its jaw blown off as it climbed a car for cover.
47 reloaded without looking. Fired again.
And again.
Each shot was calculated. Surgical. Ruthless.
When it was over, the snow fell silently once more.
Steam rose from the corpses. The road was littered with broken bodies and half-spilled brains.
47 cleaned his weapons with a rag from the glovebox. Efficient. Cold.
[NEXUS SYSTEM – EVENT CLEAR: INFECTED SWARM]+10 Stat Points Awarded
Bonus: Used Environment and Looted Equipment – Efficiency Bonus +2 Intelligence
No Vehicle Damage – +3 Reflex
He climbed back inside the truck, brushed some blood off his tie, and restarted the engine.
Jackson was less than two miles away.
He drove on, leaving behind red tracks in the snow.