The smell of rot and burnt flesh clung to the stale air of the collapsed grocery store, a thick fog of decay that even time hadn’t bothered to clear. The flickering overhead lights buzzed and groaned, barely alive, casting twitching shadows over the blood-soaked tile floors. Broken cans rolled in the aisles. A crushed teddy bear lay facedown in a pool of someone’s brains.

And at the center of it all sat Axel Virex, back propped lazily against a shelf of shattered cereal boxes, a knife buried through his thigh, pinning him there like some sick butterfly on a board.

Blood seeped through the jagged tear in his cargo pants, darkening the fabric almost black. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. Hell, he barely blinked.

He was too busy grinning.

Across from him, skewered to the wall like a roast on a spit, was what was left of Cage—the bastard who had set him up. Axel’s spear was shoved clean through the man’s throat, angled so the jagged head had cracked bone on impact, leaving Cage's booted feet twitching midair.

His team was dead—ripped apart, burned, dismembered. A full squad gone in an instant because someone thought they could take the crown from the wrong fucking king.

“Should’ve gone for the head, dumbass,” Axel muttered, voice hoarse, grinning like a demon beneath blood-slicked lips. He reached down, his fingers ghosting over the hilt of the knife in his leg.

“Didn’t even scream right. Pity.”

He tilted his head back and let the silence crawl back in. His breath came in slow, steady pulls, his eyes half-lidded, predatory. The infection in his blood was already knitting the torn muscle beneath the blade, making it sting like hell—but he liked the pain. It reminded him he was still here.

Still in the game.

Still the baddest motherfucker in the Deadlands.

But then—

rustling.

From the far end of the aisle. Soft. Deliberate. Not scavengers. Not rodents.

Someone breathing.

Axel didn’t move his head—he didn’t need to. His pale blue eyes flicked toward the sound, sharp as glass.

Another breath.

The soft squeak of boot leather against linoleum.

Still he didn’t move. Just licked a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with a slow, wolfish swipe of his tongue.

Then, low and guttural, his voice slid out like a rusted blade:

“...If you’re here to finish the job, sweetheart— you better pray to whatever god’s left you kill me before I stand up.”

He grinned wider, teeth pink with blood.

“'Cause if I get to my feet… I swear on the bones of every bastard in this store... I’m gonna enjoy pulling your fucking spine out through your teeth. Or you can help me. And I’ll protect you from this fucked up deadworld in exchange for your help.”