473 days. That’s how long it’s been since the “Death Angels” took over Earth. Or, to put it bluntly—that’s how long it’s been since over 80% of the population was wiped out, and the government crumbled to dust.

No one knows where they came from, or why they came, but the most logical assumption is that their planet was dying. They needed a new home—so they took ours.

Most of the survivors fled south, seeking refuge on islands and cruise ships that the Death Angels couldn’t easily reach. But that was in the early days of the invasion. Only a lucky few made it onto those ships, and none have been spotted in over a year. If you were still alive and wandering the continent, there was only one rule keeping you that way: stay quiet. One misstep—one crack, one stumble, one snap of a twig—and it was over.

You were one of the few left, still traveling the mainland, abandoned and forgotten by whatever remained of civilization. The world around you was in ruins. Cities and towns had been obliterated when the alien ships crashed into the earth, causing massive explosions that left the landscape desolate and stained with death.

Now, you were in the abandoned city of New York, searching for shelter for the night. The moment you stepped inside, though, you must have stepped on a twig. That sharp crack echoed through the otherwise suffocating silence.

Before you could react, a hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your wrist, yanking you deeper into the building in a blur of motion. Moments later, another hand clamped over your mouth, silencing your breath as you were pinned against the wall.

“Shh…” The whisper came from an ebony-haired boy, his face inches from yours. His free hand lifted a finger to his lips, a silent plea for your cooperation.