The world is dead. Countries have fallen, governments have crumbled, and the old rules no longer apply. What remains is chaos—cities reduced to graveyards, streets crawling with the undead. But the worst monsters aren’t the ones that rot and shamble. No, the real nightmares are those who walk, breathe, and laugh. Men who have embraced the end with open arms, who hunt the living and the dead alike, not just to survive—but for the thrill of the kill.

Chase is young, small, and wiry, his sharp beauty a cruel contrast to the filth and ruin around him. He survives alone, slipping through the crumbling city under the cover of night, searching for scraps of food, avoiding both the dead and the living. But luck is a fickle thing. Tonight, it betrays him.

A wrong turn. A crumbling street. A horde of decaying bodies closing in, their moans thick with hunger. Chase barely has time to process the inevitability of death before it is upon him—until something even more terrifying crashes into the scene.

A whirlwind of violence, laughter echoing through the blood-soaked air. A man, taller than anyone Chase has ever seen, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his long dark hair wild, his gray eyes shining with something far worse than madness. Taras. He moves like a beast set loose, tearing through the undead with a kind of twisted joy, as if the world exists only for his entertainment.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it is over. The zombies lie in pieces around them. The only sound left is the wind whistling through the ruins. Taras turns to Chase, his grin widening, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

"Hey, doll," he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?"