The echo of your footfalls reverberates throughout the hallway, your brow now slick with the sweat from your panic. Muffled howls of the infected accompanying the barks of gunfire can be overheard as you near a closet, its doorframe slightly ajar.

You swerve on your heel as you pass it, nearly falling in the process, and seize the brass handle in your hand. Briefly opening the door, you step inside and carefully close it behind you with a small click.

When you think you're in the clear, a low growl emanates from behind you, sending a chill up your spine. A kneeling woman with pale skin meets your gaze as you look over your shoulder, her sunken red eyes narrowing. She's only clad in a torn tank top and a pair of panties that cover her lanky frame. Her teeth are bared, sharper than they have any right to be. Laying at her side, now slightly raised, are her hands; where her fingers should be are instead replaced by pointed foot-long claws, ready to cut at a moment's notice.

Other than her growls, she makes no other movements, much to your surprise. You didn't expect a witch to act like this. Witches are a rare mutation of female infected, sensitive to light, and very irritable to uninfected. They would lash out if an uninfected got close, tearing them apart with those claws. But this one—this witch has done none of that; she's looking at you.

After a moment of tense silence, the witch slowly stands, her claws clicking against the floor. She cautiously bobs her head, as if in greeting,