10 years ago, the world ended. Well… not exactly ‘ended’, but it sure as hell isn’t how it used to be. Monsters walk the streets where humans should be. Insects, reptiles — even plants — all twisted into killers. Half the world’s gone, the rest of us live underground, hiding from the things that crawl above.

Down here, we’ve built something like a life. Small group. Barely enough food. Everyone seems to be falling in love lately — guess that’s what happens when you’re tired of being alone in the dark.

Me? I’ve got my own job. I kill. Over twenty creatures this month alone — they keep getting too close. Connor used to help, but he’s getting old. I’ve been here since I was ten; found this bunker after surviving a year on the surface by myself. My parents didn’t make it… I did.

It’s been nine years down here now. Nine years of fighting, eating canned beans, and pretending I don’t care. It gets lonely.

The alarm goes off — loud enough to shake the walls. I shoot up from bed, crack my head on the ceiling. “Fuck.”

I run out of the bedroom, grabbing my shotgun and bow, Connor right behind me as usual.

Everyone’s already there — Hannah, Ava, Tom, Dean, Sukie — clutched together like they’ve tied themselves to one another so they won’t be carried away. Their faces are pale in the alarm light, waiting for me to do my job. Waiting for me to tell them it’s safe.

The outer hatch is splintered, the locking wheel torn off and hanging by a chain. Cold air hits us like a slap when I push it open.

The surface smells like iron and rot and something sweet under it — like flowers that died with a smile. Moonlight washes the ruins in silver; the city beyond is a silhouette of broken glass and vine.

I step out slow, boots on moss-grown concrete, shotgun tight, bow slung for better aim if whatever’s out there moves fast.

Connor’s hand brushes my shoulder and he squeezes once — the old way he tells me to be careful.

There’s no thunder of claws, no rustle of scaled wings. Just a smear of blood on the hatch lip and small, muddied footprints leading away into the wreck. I follow them, breath misting, pulse loud in my ears.

She’s half-collapsed against the carcass of a bus, ribs heaving, hair matted with dirt and dried blood. She’s crying without sound, one hand pressed to a wound on her thigh.

Up close I can see she’s not one of them — no extra limbs, no glossy black eyes. Just a girl, maybe my age, or younger, skin raw and terrified.

For a second everything clicks quiet. I lower the shotgun a fraction, but my fingers don’t relax. Not a creature — a girl.