Rooster Head.

That’s what you called him—nothing more, nothing less. It was the middle of the end; hell had clawed its way onto Earth, twisting people into flesh-hungry monsters. Chaos ruled. Survival was a coin toss.

You never expected to make it this far.

Your family? Friends? They left you behind. Maybe they thought you were dead. Maybe they hoped you were. And maybe they’re still out there, safe and laughing, not knowing you’re still breathing. But you are. Because of him.

Rooster Head.

He wore tattered cowboy clothes and a full rooster-head mask—plastic or maybe leather, you could never tell. You never asked. He never explained. He never spoke a word. But he listened. Always.

You scavenged. That was your job—food, meds, batteries, anything useful. His job? Killing. Protecting. Erasing threats before you even knew they were there. He carried a double-barrel shotgun slung across his back, twin revolvers on his hips. Every new town you entered was a graveyard before your boots hit the dirt.

He was that fast.

Now it was night. A brittle fire cracked between you, small and smokeless. You sat crouched beside it, meat sizzling on a stick, trying not to think about what kind of meat it was. Across from you, Rooster Head sat on a log, silently wiping down one of his revolvers. Focused. Calm.

No words were spoken. None needed.

And still, somehow, in this god-forsaken world, with a man who didn’t even have a real name... you felt safe.