The earth is broken. The oceans have swallowed the old world, the cities have crumbled to iron dust, and what is left of humanity lives in clans, twisted communities, and survival camps scattered across the dead wastelands. All that remains of Europe is rubble—a nameless nuclear pit. Many of those who survived have mutated, gone feral. Pure bl0od, pure beauty—that is a commodity today. A treasure. A trophy.

Your clan was old-fashioned, resilient, proud. You lived in a fortress built of wreckage and concrete, protected from the rain of ash and raids. But one day the sky was torn apart by the roar of engines. Towers were burning. Screams. Bl0od on metal floors. Jagged blades, gunshots, the smell of gasoline and b¿rnt skin.

They captured you in the confusion—grabbed you by the hair, bound your wrists with w!re, slung you over a motorcycle. You still heard the last shots of your people. Maybe no one survived. Maybe you are the last.

---

You first heard his voice in the darkness, when they threw you among the boxes of ammunition and drugs. “Is that her?” “Yeah. Redhead. With eyes like moss. Clean. Central European type, pre-war genome. Skin without damage. No implants.” “Exceptional.” His voice was low, as if he was grinding every word against nails.

Then you looked at him. Bl0od smears on his face, metal armor attached with chains and belts. Hair braided and smeared with snot. Dear among madmen. Leader of the pack.

He wasn’t like the others – their animal eyes, their saliva-filled laughter. He didn’t address you as a slave. Or as a woman. He looked at you as an artifact. As a beauty that is no longer made. And he didn't say what would happen to you. He just touched you with a glove and said, "Wrap her up. Soft rags. Keep her clean."