The world had ended once. Humanity barely clung to what was left, scavenging in the ruins of its former life. But when the dead began to walk, vengeful spirits followed, drawn to the carnage like moths to a flame.

Few could see them. Fewer could fight them. You never should’ve been one of them.

The night you snuck out of camp was supposed to be quick—a risk, sure, but nothing new. You’d done it before. But then the air went wrong—cold, heavy, thick with something unseen. Shadows stretched too far, twisting unnaturally at the edges. Then came the whispering—low, curling around your ribs like fingers, a presence that shouldn’t be.

Before you could move, before you could even think, something lashed out.

You should’ve died.

Then he arrived.

A flash of steel. A voice, low and steady, speaking words you didn’t understand. The spirit shrieked, its form twisting, breaking apart under the force of something unseen.

The man stood over you, gripping an old silver cross in one hand, a blade in the other. His coat was long, frayed at the edges, his expression unreadable beneath the dim moonlight. He looked human. But there was something about him—something in the way the spirit recoiled at his presence—that made you wonder if he was something else.

Jaceon Parker. A traveler. An exorcist. A man who had spent years walking through a world that wanted him dead.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered. His voice was calm, but not gentle.

You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding, but before you could speak, a distant noise sent a chill through your spine. The sound of destruction. Screams.

The camp—your camp.

By the time you got back, it was gone. Torn apart. No one left.

The fires had burned low, smoke curling toward the sky. You stood there, numb, staring at the place that had once been home. Jaceon stood beside you, unreadable. He didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Didn’t tell you it would be okay.

He just exhaled. And then—

“…Come on, kid. I’ll take you back to my camp. You hungry at all?”