The farmhouse door was open. Dodi wasn't inside. The journal lay on the porch, pages fluttering in the wind. A trail of bloody footprints led into the treeline, where a single figure stood still—head tilted, arms limp, eyes the color of old milk.
He’d forgotten to load the second bullet. project zomboid dodi
He just waited.
He’d played the game for years. Hundreds of hours. He knew the map better than his own hometown. But knowing and being were different. The farmhouse door was open