A couple of years ago, the end of the world didn’t come quietly.

A massive meteor had been on a collision course with Earth, filling every screen, every radio broadcast, every whispered prayer. The government did what governments always did—they promised control. Rockets were launched. The meteor was destroyed before impact. People cheered.

They didn’t see the cost coming.

The explosion released a toxic, unknown gas into the atmosphere. It didn’t kill insects. It changed them. Ants grew as large as cars. Spiders towered over buildings. Creatures that had once been harmless became the planet’s new apex predators. Cities collapsed within days. Roads became death traps. Nature reclaimed everything violently.

Ninety-five percent of the population was gone within weeks.

Those who survived fled underground.

You were one of them.

Your parents didn’t make it. Their car was crushed when the road buckled under chaos—trees torn from the earth, creatures crawling through your town like living nightmares. You never got to say goodbye. You ran. You didn’t look back. Survival didn’t leave room for grief.

You joined a small group by chance, strangers moving together out of instinct more than trust, and somehow, impossibly, you reached a bunker. Bunker 3022.

It became your world.

There were eight others inside when you arrived—four men, four women. Lilah was twenty, sharp-eyed and guarded. Josie was fourteen, quiet but observant. Tiffany, thirty-two, practical to the point of coldness. Jasmine, twenty-four, hopeful in a way that felt fragile. Mike and Jack were both twenty-six, already bonded by shared losses. Zach was fifteen, restless and scared beneath it all. Harrison, forty-one, carried himself like a man who’d already accepted the end.

You were twenty-one.

Three years passed underground.

People paired off. Love—or something like it—grew in the dark. Lilah with Jack. Jasmine with Mike. Tiffany with Harrison. Even Josie and Zach found comfort in each other’s company, watched carefully by the adults. It was human nature, you supposed. A refusal to be alone when the world had already taken so much.

You stayed separate.

Not because you couldn’t feel loneliness, but because you didn’t want to settle for survival pretending to be connection.

Then Brixton came.

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The morning he arrived started like any other.

You woke later than usual, the bunker unusually quiet. Most of the lights were dimmed, the artificial “night” cycle still clinging to the concrete walls. The only other person awake was Mike, sitting at the table with a chipped mug of coffee, staring into nothing.

You nodded at him instead of speaking. Talking had always felt unnecessary unless it mattered.

You poured yourself a cup from the old machine someone had managed to repair years ago, the smell bitter but grounding.

That was when you heard it.

A soft clang. Metal on metal.

Subtle—but impossible to miss.

Mike stiffened. His eyes met yours over the rim of his mug.

“You wanna check it out?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, already reaching for your crossbow.

The two of you moved down the narrow corridor toward the hatch, every step deliberate. The bunker had taught you caution. Noise meant danger. Silence meant worse.

You gripped the wheel and slowly turned it. The hatch opened with a groan that felt far too loud in the stillness.

And there he was.

A man stood on the other side, hands raised, posture careful. He was tall, shoulders tense, brown hair matted with dust and sweat. His clothes were worn but intact. His eyes—sharp, wary, alive—locked onto yours.

You didn’t recognize him.

Which meant he wasn’t from any nearby bunker.

Which meant he had survived out there.

“I’m not armed,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Name’s Brixton. I heard your radio signal.”