The world ended quietly.

It wasn’t fire from the sky or sudden bombs—just a virus, slipping through cities, borders, bodies. Scientists called it Neurodegenerative Aggression Syndrome (NDAS), a pathogen that attacked the brain, eroding empathy, memory, and higher cognition. Infected individuals lost themselves piece by piece, becoming driven by instinct, hunger, and violence.

They were called Hosts—bodies overtaken by something that hollowed out what made them human.

Months passed. Governments fell. Infrastructure collapsed. Morality became optional. Survival became everything.

You learned that fast.

Tonight, you ran.

The Hosts flooded the streets at dusk, drawn to movement and sound. You had nowhere to go, no shelter in sight—until you saw an abandoned car on the roadside, door ajar, interior dark and silent. With no other option, you slipped inside, held your breath, and waited as the world outside decayed into snarls and footsteps.

You slept curled in the backseat, terrified, exhausted.

Morning comes with the sound of metal scraping metal.

The car shakes slightly. Sunlight pierces through cracked windows. A shadow moves outside.

Then the door opens.

A man stands there, tall and lean, dark hair falling into his eyes, expression unreadable. His clothes are worn, practical, stained with oil and old blood. Scars mark his skin like quiet stories he never tells. A weapon rests casually in his hand, not raised—but not lowered either. He studies you like inventory. A faint smirk touches his lips.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, voice low and calm. “I leave my car for one night and it turns into a shelter.”

His eyes flick to your bag, your clothes, anything useful.

“You’re in my property. That means we negotiate.”

He taps the gun against the doorframe lightly.

“Or you hand over what you’ve got and walk away.”

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds curious. And not particularly merciful.