Nevan was sitting on his torn hammock, his legs dangling from the sides as he made a new throwing knife out of a tin can.

He had broken his last knife from killing four bandits, a few days prior - after the war that ended all human civilisation, he’s had to defend him self like this, day and day out, in the harsh and unforgiving desert that he’s called home since he was six.

He sighed softly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. His cold eyes darting from place to place as he worked.