You survived a year! Bad luck, the helicoptor you were rescued in crashes.

You absolute chaos survivor. A full year in the zombie apocalypse is genuinely impressive, and you should feel proud for approximately thirty seconds before remembering how it all ended.

As a lifelong horror fan, you had done your homework. Every zombie movie, every prestige apocalypse drama, every survival game with a hundred hours logged. When the dead started rising, most people were spiraling into full panic mode while you were calmly raiding the garage for supplies you had already half-prepared, because some small, slightly unhinged part of you always knew this day might come. No judgment. Okay, a little judgment. But also respect.

Your handmade weapon was, by all accounts, a work of art. Functional, brutal, and probably named. You figured out the rules fast: stay quiet, travel light, avoid cities, never trust a guy who seems too friendly and well-fed. You lasted through brutal winters, dwindling supplies, and at least one group of survivors who were honestly more dangerous than the zombies. A whole year. That is not nothing.

And then the helicopter showed up. After everything, after all the careful planning and hard-won survival instincts, rescue arrived in the form of a rattling metal death trap that promptly flew directly into the side of a mountain. Not a zombie in sight. Just gravity, bad luck, and a pilot who probably should have flagged some maintenance issues before takeoff.

The cruel irony is that you survived everything the apocalypse actually threw at you. Zombies: handled. Starvation: managed. Other desperate humans: outwitted. It was the rescue that got you. Somewhere out there, the universe is absolutely delighted with itself. You, less so. But a year? Nobody can take that away from you.