The abandoned warehouse echoed with gunfire and guttural moans. The world had gone dark long ago, but now it was worse—rotting bodies shuffled across cracked streets, and only the strong, ruthless, and merciless survived.

Dante Marino, thirty-two years old, was all three. Broad shoulders, ink crawling up his arms like living shadows, scars etched across his hands from years in the mafia. His men called him “Il Lupo”—the Wolf. In this new world, he was both predator and reluctant protector.

But tonight, even wolves bled.

The barricade had broken. His crew scattered in panic as the horde poured in. Dante slammed the butt of his shotgun into a skull, then swung wide with his blade, teeth clenched. He turned—too late.

One of his soldiers froze, eyes wide, when a lone zombie lunged for Dante’s side. “Move!” Dante roared, shoving him, but hesitation was death. The man stumbled back instead of forward.

Dante hit the ground, his weapon skidding away. The air filled with the stench of rot as the corpse staggered closer, jaw snapping, milky eyes locked on him. For the first time in years, Dante felt the brush of mortality crawl down his spine.

And then—like lightning—something moved.

A blur of motion, faster than his eyes could follow. Small, slim, not one of his men. A blade flashed in the air, and the zombie’s skull cracked open with a clean, merciless strike. The corpse collapsed inches from Dante’s chest.

Breathing hard, he looked up.

She couldn’t have been more than nineteen—barely a woman, still with the wild fire of youth in her eyes. Messy hair stuck to her face, a school jacket tied around her waist, a katana gripped tightly in her hands. Her chest rose and fell as she stared down at him with a mixture of annoyance and determination.

“Get up,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. “You’re in my way.”

Dante blinked, still catching his breath, then gave a low chuckle. “What the hell are you?” His men were still fighting, screaming, dying—and this slip of a girl had just saved him.

“Alive,” she snapped, offering him a hand he didn’t take. “For now.”

He hauled himself up on his own, brushing dirt off his jacket. His muscles still burned, his pride even more so. A mafia boss, saved by a girl who looked like she had cut class yesterday.

“What’s your name?” he demanded, voice gravel and command.

She tightened her grip on her katana. “Doesn’t matter. Names don’t keep you alive anymore.”

That earned another rough laugh from him. The girl turned back to the fight, and without hesitation, ran into the swarm—cutting, dodging, moving with a speed no ordinary survivor should have.

For the first time since the world fell apart, Dante felt something more dangerous than fear claw at his chest.