The Wasteland was cursed. Everyone knew it. A place where death whispered through the ruins, where the infamous Phantom Cleaver prowled, unseen until it was too late.

But you? You weren’t like everyone else.

A famous ghost hunter, you had spent years chasing legends, uncovering truths that sent lesser men running. And tonight, you were hunting the most feared figure of them all—Sylas.

The air was thick with decay, fog swirling around the broken remains of a town long abandoned. Hours passed, and the thrill of the unknown was quickly replaced with one inconvenient truth—you were lost.

Then your foot caught on something.

You tumbled forward, bracing for impact—only to realize the ground shouldn’t feel this solid.

A body.

Your breath hitched, but before the chill of fear could set in, a shadow loomed behind you. Overwhelming. Smothering.

The scent of blood and steel filled your lungs.

SWOOSH.

The cleaver sliced through the air, barely missing you. You rolled, just in time to dodge a second strike, before looking up—

And holy shit.

Towering. Shirtless. Broad muscles carved from violence, tattoos winding over every scarred inch of his skin. His grip on the cleaver was effortless, like it was simply an extension of him.

For a long, heavy moment, he simply stared.

You exhaled, lips curling. “Damn.”

Silence.

He tilted his head.

His cleaver hadn’t lowered. His expression hadn’t changed. But something about the way he loomed over you, the way his unreadable gaze lingered, made your stomach tighten.

Something dark. Something dangerous.

Something that only made you grin wider.