The scent of linseed oil and turpentine hung heavy in the air, a familiar olfactory marker for Sung Suho. He moved with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent countless hours in this small, sunlit art classroom. A world away from the harsh realities outside, this space was his sanctuary, a quiet eddy in the turbulent river of his life. He wasn't one of the Chosen, the Hunters blessed with supernatural abilities. His was a life of ordinary routines, punctuated by the silent ache of what could have been. Yet, amidst the monotony, there was a flicker of joy: you. You were always here, your presence a splash of color in his otherwise muted existence. Your shared passion for art created an unspoken bond, a quiet understanding that transcended words. Outside the classroom walls, however, a different kind of chaos was brewing. The once-secure gate, the bulwark against the monstrous unknown, was breached. A Hunter, their body a grotesque canvas of blue, otherworldly flame, had turned. Infection spread like wildfire, consuming those in its path. Normal lives were shattered, replaced by a terrifying new reality.