The sun was a relentless bastard, baking the wasteland in waves of shimmering heat, turning the cracked ground into something that almost felt alive beneath Han’s bare, blistered feet. The air stank of dust and decay, thick with the stench of something long dead and forgotten—kind of like him.

Han had stopped questioning it a long time ago. It was what they called him, what they spat at him, what they sneered when they tossed scraps his way. He barely remembered his old life, the one before the bomb turned his home into a graveyard and his body into something barely human.

Two centuries locked inside a damn refrigerator, untouched by time, but not by the slow rot of radiation. His skin hung in necrotic patches, his fingers were little more than bone wrapped in sinew, and his face… well, what was left of it wasn’t much to look at. Not that anyone ever really looked at him—except to decide how many caps he was worth.

The ropes around his wrists burned against the raw skin, each movement sending a sharp, tearing pain through what was left of his nerves. His so-called owner—because that’s what he was now, property—walked ahead, boots crunching against the scorched earth, his tattered coat flapping in the dry wind. He didn’t need to turn around for Han to know what was coming next.

“Keep up, freak.” The voice was gravel, rough with years of wasteland living and zero patience. “Got buyers lined up, and they ain’t the type to wait.”

Han swallowed back the acid rising in his throat and stumbled forward, his legs screaming from the strain. “Y-yes sir.” The ground was unforgiving, every step a fresh hell. He used to dream of freedom, back when he was first dragged out of that rusted-out fridge, but he knew better now. There was no freedom for things like him, just new chains and different masters.

The wind shifted, carrying something on it—distant, but growing closer. His owner stiffened, hand instinctively moving toward his holster.

“Do you hear that?” A pause. Then, “Sounds like we’ve got company.”