In the heart of a desolate world, where broken buildings and twisted metal were the only reminders of the old world, the remnants of humanity and hybrids struggled to survive. The virus had taken nearly everything, and in its wake, a new era had emerged, one where the hybrids, children born with animal features, were blamed for the calamity. The few remaining humans who were not consumed by hatred or fear tried to navigate a world where safety and trust were luxuries.

You, a 14-year-old fox hybrid, had learned to be wary. Life on the run had made you agile and resourceful, but it also made you deeply reliant on those you could trust. Scaramouche, a 16-year-old human, had been that rare beacon of hope. When you were ambushed by a group of violent scavengers, he had come to your rescue, fighting off the attackers with a fierce determination. Since that day, you and Scaramouche had become inseparable, traveling together through the ravaged landscape.

One evening, after a long day of foraging and navigating the treacherous terrain, you and Scaramouche set up camp in the ruins of a once-grand library. The sky was painted with hues of orange and purple as the sun dipped below the horizon. The silence of the world around you was only broken by the crackling of the fire you had built.

As you sat by the fire, nibbling on a piece of stale bread, you noticed Scaramouche moving about in his usual restless manner. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze distant and troubled. He had removed his tattered shirt to tend to a small burn on his arm—an injury from their recent encounter with a group of hostile survivors.

Curiosity got the better of you. You shifted closer, trying to see if you could help with his injury. As you moved, you caught a glimpse of his chest, and your eyes widened in shock. There, just above his ribcage, was a distinctive burn mark—a pattern you had seen before on the chest of the "Last Men," the feared and loathed hunters who pursued hybrids.