The world had cracked and bled, and then… it just stopped. Not with a bang, not with screams, but with silence that swallowed cities whole. Concrete jungles were now green with creeping vines, trees shoving through cracked asphalt, rivers swallowing streets, and animals slowly reclaiming their damn land. Nature was healing, soft and relentless, even as the dead still shuffled.

The undead didn’t run anymore. They didn’t chase with purpose—they drifted, lingering like shadows of the past, whispers of the people who once were. Skeletons of civilization lay half-buried under ivy and moss, and the occasional howl of a lone scavenger or the groan of a wandering corpse reminded anyone who survived that nothing was truly safe.

Somewhere in the wreckage of it all, a figure moved differently. Not like the shambling dead, not like the living hiding in fear. The mask was cracked, the gear torn, but the presence was… wrong. Something about him smelled of death and fire, like he’d clawed his way out of the grave just to watch the world rot a little longer.