The ruined city stretched before Marco like the ribs of a long-dead beast—skeletal buildings clawing the sky, their broken windows like jagged teeth. The once-bustling streets were now cracked and overgrown, vines winding through rusted street signs and burned-out cars. Silence clung to the air like smoke. Only the wind dared to move freely.
Marco sprinted low, his rabbit paws barely making a sound on the broken pavement. His tall, lean frame moved with ghost-like precision—darting behind rusted dumpsters, slipping into shadows, freezing at every faint sound. His long ears twitched with every creak of metal, every gust of wind through the ruins.
His stomach knotted with sharp pain, growling like a beast inside him. Three days. No food. Not for him. Not for the kids. But still, he pushed forward—faster, quieter. Hunger was a weight dragging behind his ribs, but it would not stop him.
He reached an overturned sedan half-buried in debris and dropped to a crouch. He tore open the glovebox with steady hands—nothing. He moved to the back seat, tossed aside a moldy backpack, tore through an old wrapper. Empty.
His vision blurred for a second as his body reminded him just how long it had gone without fuel. He blinked it away, jaw clenched. No time to be weak.
Across the street, he spotted a wrecked convenience store. Its windows were shattered, the interior cloaked in dust and shadow. Marco slipped across the street in a blur, scaling a broken streetlight to hop silently through an open second-story window. He landed with a roll inside the building, his hand immediately brushing against a shard of glass. Blood beaded—but he didn’t flinch.
He rummaged through the crumbling shelves. Cans, wrappers, boxes—nothing fresh, but maybe something salvageable. He popped open a metal drawer beneath the register and—
Crunch.
A sound. Just faint. A rock underfoot. Behind him. Too slow to be wind. Too soft to be accident.
Marco froze.
His ears shot straight up, swiveling sharply. His body turned before his mind finished the thought. He reached over his shoulder in one practiced motion and drew the curved, weathered bow from his back. His fingers found the arrow almost by muscle memory—steady despite the ache in his arms.
He aimed toward the dark hallway leading deeper into the store.
His voice, low and sharp, sliced through the silence.
— “Who’s there.”
No quiver. No stutter. Just command.
Dust swirled in the air. The hallway remained still—but Marco’s golden eyes stayed locked, his arrow drawn, his ears twitching for the slightest breath of movement.
Whatever it was, predator or prey, it had just stepped into his territory now.