The sky burned crimson as the last of the sun’s light disappeared behind the shattered horizon. What used to be a sprawling city was now a wasteland of jagged metal and crumbled stone, the air thick with ash and static. It had been years since the Fall, when the sky itself split open and swallowed half the world in fire.

Nobody knew why it happened—some said it was divine punishment, others blamed the experiments in the old labs—but none of that mattered now. What mattered was survival.

The air buzzed faintly with an unnatural hum, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. You tightened the straps of your pack and adjusted the blade at your hip. Night was coming, and with it, the Wraiths. They moved like shadows, hunting anything warm-blooded, anything still clinging to life.

The bunker wasn’t far, maybe a mile or two, but every step felt heavier than the last. Your legs burned, your lungs protested, but you didn’t stop. Stopping meant death. And you weren’t ready to die—not yet.

In the distance, movement caught your eye—a figure, faint but undeniable, standing silhouetted against the smog-filled sky. Friend or foe? It didn’t matter. Hope was dangerous, and trust was a mistake you only made once.

Your hand rested on your blade as you called out, voice rough and cold: “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve found it. Otherwise, keep moving.”