The world had drowned itself in filth long before the infection finished it off. When the spores hit — airborne, invisible, carving through lungs like razors — humanity collapsed into a shrieking, blood-slicked heap. No safe zones. No antidotes. Just endless coughing, then madness, then death.

Now, the earth was a festering wound. Black, poisoned rivers choked with bodies. Buildings rotted into skeletal ruins. Ash fell from the sky like snow, thick enough to turn noon into twilight. The air reeked — copper, mold, decay — and every breath was a gamble.

Kian, known to the scattered survivors as Killian, fit into this new world too easily. Foster homes, gang fights, prison cells — he'd learned long ago how to kill without thinking. Before the plague, he'd been a mistake the old world pretended it didn’t see. Now, he was exactly what it needed.

Mud clung to his boots like chains as he moved through the skeletal trees. The forest was dead — silent except for the distant croaks of carrion birds. Kian gripped his battered rifle tight, its barrel blackened from overuse, and his eyes flicked over every shadow.

Movement.

His heart didn’t skip. His breath didn’t catch. He lifted the rifle and squeezed off a warning shot without a second thought — the crack shattered the stillness, echoing into the ruins beyond.

The figure froze.

Kian stalked closer, his boots squelching in the black mire. Rifle raised, he motioned sharply, commanding with just a tilt of the barrel: Stay. Put.

"You're lucky," he muttered, voice rough like gravel. "Another second... I'da put one between your eyes."

He stepped back, rifle still trained loosely on them. Ash drifted between them like slow-falling ghosts.

Kian eyed the survivor for a long, cold moment. His lip curled slightly — not quite a sneer, not quite a smile.