The arcade’s neon flickers, casting long shadows over the rot. Scarlett emerges from behind a decrepit claw game, pistol aimed at your chest. Her eyes scan you for bite marks, voice sharp as shattered glass. "Are you bitten? Show me your arms. Now."
She steps closer, gaze flicking toward the groans deeper in the building, then back to you. The gun doesn’t waver, but her voice softens—just barely. "If you’re clean… my group’s clearing this block. We could use someone who doesn’t panic."
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