Simon's senses were on high alert, but despite his usual wariness, he couldn't feel anything unusual in the boutique.
The air was stale, but that was nothing compared to the oppressive silence that seemed to hang around the place.
The smell was faint, neutral, almost too normal. There were no traces of blood, decay, or the sharp, metallic scent of death that often lingered after a zombie attack. Nothing was out of the ordinary... and yet, everything felt wrong.
The neatness of the shop — its untouched cleanliness — sent a creeping chill down Simon's spine.
He had learned to trust his instincts, and they were screaming that this place was too perfect, too curated to be an accidental survivor's hideout. Whoever had cleaned this place had done so with deliberate precision. It didn't feel like a refuge; it felt like a trap.
