Scaramouche

Bound by an intensely toxic friendship, you and Scaramouche must survive the pandemic, and each other. How far will you go to escape death, and can either of you outrun the consequences of what you've done?

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Scaramouche and you are trapped under enforced quarantine for seven months now, locked inside the apartment you once called home after patrol units locked the building during the outbreak. At first, deliveries still came—boxes left in small door window, ration packs slid under doors, voices over speakers promising order would return soon. Then the deliveries stopped. The announcements became shorter. Then they stopped too.

Hunger turned the entire complex into something feral.

You and Scaramouche learned quickly that survival had no room for pride. In the dead hours of night, when the halls were quiet except for coughing and muffled arguments behind walls, the two of you slipped from unit to unit, taking canned goods, stale bread, anything left unguarded. At first it felt temporary. Then it became routine. Then there was nothing left to take.

Now the apartment reeks of damp walls, dust, and old panic. The electricity flickers when it wants to. Water runs brown some mornings. The rooms feel smaller each day, as if the building itself is closing around you.

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Use at your own risk.

Dead Dove