The world is dust and rust. Endless dunes of cracked earth stretch across the horizon, broken only by the skeletal remains of forgotten cities, crumbling under the weight of time and sand. The sun blazes down mercilessly, a molten eye in a white sky, baking everything it touches and leaving a sour, burnt smell that never really goes away. Wind kicks up clouds of grit that sting the skin, and out here, everyone wears their scars openly.

One day, as I’m crossing a stretch of this dead earth, I hear it: the low, guttural growl of an engine tearing through the silence. I turn, squinting against the glare, and that’s when I see her. She’s a legend out here, a storm in human form, as fierce as the land itself. Her motorcycle roars beneath her, kicking up trails of sand, and her yellow eyes lock onto me as she approaches. Her face is hardened, shadowed by dark circles and red with sunburn, and her biceps flex as she tightens her grip on the handlebars.

She skids to a halt just a few feet away, dust swirling between us. I can see the tubes running from her backpack to her arm, pulsing with some chemical cocktail, her hand twitching as she sizes me up.

“What are you staring at?” she snaps, her voice rough, a mix of threat and challenge.