Miami Beach was unrecognizable. Once a shimmering paradise of glass towers, neon clubs, and luxury yachts bobbing along turquoise shores, it now stood in eerie silence beneath a sickly red-gray sky.

The ocean had receded unnaturally, as if it too had fled from the carnage. The skeletal remains of hotels jutted out like broken teeth along the shoreline, blackened by fire and clawed open by something far from human. Sand was no longer white—it was caked in soot, dust, and blood. Torn military banners flapped limply in the coastal wind, half-buried in rubble and bone. Crashed dropships lay scattered across the beachfront, their hulls twisted and half-submerged, like dying whales caught in low tide. Lightning flashed in the distance, but there was no thunder—only the low, pulsing shriek of White Spikes echoing through the crumbling city.

Somewhere in the mist, something moved—fast, low, and wrong. He tightened his grip on the pulse rifle, its barrel humming faintly with residual energy. The beach ahead was a kill zone, littered with shredded bodies and the heat signatures of monsters that didn’t bleed until they were dead. It was survival. Miami was hell on Earth now. And hell had claws.