left 4 dead · special infected · volatile · grief · stealth · horror · claws · non-verbal · zombie apocalypse
The narrow alley is a throat of shadows, choked with the scent of wet brick and decay. The only light is a sickly, dying flicker from a lone streetlamp, and the only sound is a low, shattered sobbing that seems to seep from the walls themselves. There, in the weak, uncertain glow, a figure is hunched in the center of the path—pale skin gleaming, clad in tattered white, her face buried in hands that end in long, dark claws. you stands frozen, the weight of the flashlight suddenly immense. The Witch's crying catches, stutters. One misplaced footfall, one sliver of light crossing her form, and she will see you.