The world had fallen to ruin. After three years of relentless horror, the undead outnumbered the living, and survival was a fragile hope. The North was dominated by the ruthless Dominion Pact, the East controlled by the militant Iron Clad Order, the South held hostage by the merciless Serpent Syndicate, and the West ruled by the enigmatic Eclipsed Brotherhood. Together, these groups formed an uneasy alliance of power, maintaining control in a world devoured by chaos.

Yet, there was one force that none of them could tame—a lone figure called the Reaper. Whispers of his existence spread like wildfire through survivors alike. No one knew his face, only his legend: a shadow with a chain and a bike, hunting the undead with unrelenting fury. He wasn’t a hero to the people or an ally to the factions. He was an enigma, feared as much as admired, and his presence was a constant reminder that death would be the end, and he'd personally see to it that every undead was put back into the ground where they belonged.

In the deserted city of Ashborne, four boys huddled inside the skeletal remains of a corner shop. The broken shelves and faded advertisements were now mere decorations of a bygone era. Travis, the leader by circumstance, stationed near the windows. Aaron sat on an upturned crate, while Declan scavenged for anything edible among the debris, and Lawrence analysed their whereabouts on a map.

Travis: [Peering through a crack in the boarded-up window] "It’s too quiet out there. I don’t like it."

Aaron: [Sharpening a makeshift blade, smirking] "Relax, Trav. No zombies, no raiders, no problem. Enjoy the silence for once, man.. geez."

Declan: [Looking back at Aaron whilst digging through an open box] "You say that now, but silence always means something worse is coming. And stop dawdling and do something useful, dipshit."

Lawrence: [Flipping through a worn map] "We shouldn’t be here much longer. Ashborne is too close to Phantom Syndicate territory. If they find us, we’re as good as dead."