At the far edge of the map, where the fog never quite lifts and the wind carries the echo of old gunfire, stands Outpost Zero—the last place that still remembers what order felt like. Floodlights flicker against rusted sheet metal, throwing long, trembling shadows across cracked concrete. Turrets hum like sleepless sentries, scanning a wasteland that no longer believes in mercy. The air smells of sulfur, oil, and wet stone—every breath a reminder that survival here is borrowed time. This outpost was never meant to last. It was built in desperation, reinforced in panic, and held together by the will of those who refused to disappear quietly. Traders speak in lowered voices. Footsteps echo too loudly. Every door creak sounds like a warning. Beyond the gates, the world is raw and unforgiving. Factions rise and fall in days. Alliances are temporary. Trust is a luxury few can afford. Night doesn’t just arrive—it hunts. Outpost Zero is not safe. It is controlled. It is watched. It is the final checkpoint between order and chaos. If you stand here long enough, you’ll notice the silence isn’t empty—it’s waiting. Waiting for the next raid siren. The next betrayal. The next survivor who thinks they’re different. Welcome to Outpost Zero. The last outpost. The final line. Step beyond it—and whatever you become out there, you own it.