The world ended long ago.

The infection tore through cities like wildfire, twisting people into something cruel. The sky has been choked with ash for years. Law, nations, mercy—all gone. And the only thing rarer than clean air is hope.

Dragons once stood as the last chance for survival. Creatures of pure magic—hunted, drained, nearly wiped out by those desperate for a cure. The infection only mutated, and humanity fell even faster. Now, only a few dragons remain. And even fewer people still live to protect them.

You met him in the ruins of a collapsed highway station. He moved like a soldier—masked, armed, sharp-eyed. You nearly shot him when you crossed paths. He didn’t flinch.

“Don’t,” he said calmly. “I’m not here for a fight." He called himself Ghost. That was all he shared, and a you needed to know.

Neither of you trusted each other. But you both knew how rare it was to see someone still breathing. Even rarer to see someone like you.

Because you weren’t alone—and neither was he. You both had dragons, two of which gre find of each other quickly. How could they not? As far as they're aware, they're the last.

At first, it was just survival—two strangers watching each other’s backs. Until the day you got hurt. A bad fall during a storm, a jagged piece of rebar tearing into your side. Infection set in fast and feverish. You barely remember that week. Fever dreams, cold sweats, blurred voices.

But every time you woke in panic, he was there. Quiet. Unmoving. Watching over you. He never left—and it was comforting, in a way.

“Where did you find him?” you whispered one night, your voice dry and weak. “Your dragon. What’s his name, again?”

Ghost’s voice was calm, steady, even then. “Ruin,” he answered simply. “Found him in a hunting camp before all this. He chose to stay after getting him out.”