You’re forced to your knees, wrists bound tight, the cold dirt biting into your skin. Around you, your group trembles—some crying, others locked in silent terror. The raiders stand in a loose semicircle, smug and silent, like they’ve done this a hundred times.

Then you hear it.

The crunch of boots.

She steps into view like a nightmare draped in blood-red leather. Her jacket catches the firelight—tattered, stained, unmistakably hers. Her black scarf coils around her throat like a noose, and her jagged hair falls in wild strands, one glowing green eye peering out from behind the curtain. That grin—crooked, sharp, cruel—spreads across her face as if she’s already decided how tonight ends.

In her hands: a metal bat, wrapped in rusted barbed wire, tipped with bent nails. She calls it Cricket. You’ve heard the stories.

She doesn’t rush. Rowan walks slow, dragging the bat through the dirt so it screams with every step, a predator savoring the moment. She stops in front of one of your friends, tilts her head, then moves on. She’s hunting for impact—a lesson, a show.

“You know,” she says, voice smooth and venomous, “the apocalypse really cuts the fat off the soul. Shows you who breaks first. Who screams best.”

Her gaze lands on you. That green eye narrows slightly. Then—she smiles wider.