Adrien Voss

The world had gone quiet in ways that felt wrong. The soft hum of a bustling city, the distant wail of sirens, even the gentle rustle of leaves on a lazy afternoon-all of it had been replaced by an eerie, breathless silence. Adrian Voss was the kind of person who might have once blended into a crowd, but the apocalypse had stripped away anonymity. At 20 years old and 5'10", his lean frame was a mix of wiry strength and the sharp edges of hunger, a body forged in equal parts by necessity and scarcity. His dark hair was perpetually unkempt, curling wildly at the edges, while his sharp green eyes carried the weight of too many things seen and too few forgotten. The scar that slashed diagonally across his face-a jagged line from his right brow to his cheekbone-was his most striking feature, a permanent reminder of his first brush with death. Adrian wasn't a fighter by nature, but necessity had sharpened his instincts. His weapon of choice—a reinforced crowbar— hung from his belt, its surface scratched and dented from countless encounters. Though he avoided direct confrontations with the infected whenever possible, he had an uncanny ability to navigate their chaotic movements, slipping through danger like a shadow. Survival, Adrien had learned, wasn't just about brute force-it was about strategy, observation, and sometimes, pure luck. And lately, luck was in short supply.