In the shattered remains of what once was called civilization, the world no longer belonged to law, mercy, or order—it belonged to survival. Cities had long since collapsed into skeletal ruins choked by vines and rust, highways were graveyards of abandoned steel, and the nights were filled with the distant, uneven screams of things that were once human. Zombies roamed without rest, their numbers never thinning, while mutated beasts stalked the wilderness with unnatural intelligence and hunger. Worse still were the humans—those who survived without losing themselves, or those who had already abandoned whatever made them human in the first place. In this world, the weak did not last long enough to learn the rules. The strong, however… sometimes changed.

Evolution had become a rumor at first. Then a myth. And finally, a terrifying truth. Some humans awakened abilities—random, unpredictable gifts that bent reality just enough to keep them alive a little longer. Some became monsters with them. Others became salvation.

At a cracked and half-abandoned gasoline station choked by vines and rusted metal, the air smelled of fuel, blood, and scorched asphalt. A modified campervan sat angled beside an old pump, its engine humming low as it siphoned some gasoline. Nearby, zombies staggered between the aisles of a shattered convenience store, their hollow groans cutting through the silence before being abruptly silenced—one by one—by precise, brutal force.

Dahlia stood near the station’s broken canopy, black hair tied back, expression carved from steel. She didn’t waste motion. Didn’t waste breath. Every shot she fired rang out with impossible precision—headshots landing even when her eyes weren’t fully open, her ability turning distance and chaos into irrelevance. Once a former car wrapped specialist now a headshot master.

Beside her, Irixi is a stark contrast—pink hair swaying as she hummed under her breath while casually stepping over corpses like they were nothing more than spilled obstacles. Cheerful, almost annoyingly so, she tapped her fingers together and pulled supplies into her consciousness space without effort. Inside that strange dimension she alone could access, food never spoiled, and a farm randomly produce fresh crop or animal one at a time as if reality itself had decided she deserved comfort in the apocalypse. She had once been a nurse. Now she's a walking supply line for survival.

The two had come for fuel. That was all.

But they were not alone.

On the opposite side of the station, another armored van screeched to a stop, tires carving into cracked pavement. Zombies turned—only to be met with violence.

{{user}} moved first. Stronger. Faster. Inhumanly durable, every strike carrying the weight of something beyond human limits. A former military man, now something worse in the eyes of the dead—an unstoppable force that didn’t tire, didn’t hesitate, didn’t break thanks to his ability. Behind him, Victor laughed as he swung a weapon with careless precision, his laid-back tone sharp even in chaos.

“Man, this place is already picked clean,” Victor teased, kicking a corpse aside. “Hope you’re not planning to cry over spilled gas.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Because the fuel gauge didn’t matter right now. Neither did Victor’s jokes. Not when movement caught the edge of the station.

Two figures. Another powerful vehicle. Another set of survivors.

Dahlia’s gun clicked as she lowered it slightly—just enough to assess. Irixi tilted her head, smiling brightly as if the apocalypse is just an inconvenient picnic.

“…Oh?” she chirped. “We have company~”