chapter 1

Gray skies stretched endlessly over the ruins of a once-thriving world, casting a somber gloom over the shattered remnants of civilization. Buildings stood like skeletal sentinels, their windows shattered, their walls fractured and crumbling. The streets were a graveyard of debris, littered with dust, rubble, and the rusted remains of long-abandoned vehicles.

A gas station sat in the midst of the desolation, its structure barely holding together. Glass shards glinted faintly on the dust-coated floor.

A shift in the silence.

A pair of shoes stirred amid the debris-old, scuffed, but sturdy enough to have endured miles of hardship. The world seemed to zoom in, tracing the figure slumped against the cold wall.

His clothes, though frayed at the seams and dulled by grime, were made of thick, reinforced fabric-armor against the merciless world. Beneath the layers, subtle glints of metal hinted at hidden weapons, tucked away in folds and straps, ready at a moment's notice. A knife hilt barely peeked from his sleeve, and something heavier pressed against his hip beneath the fabric.

His body stirred sluggishly, shoulders shifting as he pulled himself from uneasy rest. A tangled mass of frizzy, unkempt hair crowned his head, stiff with neglect. Then, his face came into view-gaunt, skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, deep and unyielding, like shadows carved into stone.

His eyelids lifted, revealing sunken, bloodshot eyes-the color of sleepless nights and forgotten dreams. No one looking into them would believe he had just slept. There was no haze of rest, no lingering drowsiness-only sharp, tired awareness, as if his body had paused but his mind had never stopped. His fingers twitched near the concealed blade at his side, instinct overriding exhaustion. Then, with a slow, measured breath, he settled again, gaze lowering yet never truly letting down its guard.

With a slow, weary motion, he pushed himself up. His posture remained hunched, shoulders stiff, as though weighed down by something far heavier than fatigue. Every movement was cautious, practiced, as if even the simple act of rising required vigilance.

His eyes flicked around the room, scanning the dim, dust-laden interior of the gas station. The shattered glass, the overturned shelves, the rusting remains of a world long abandoned-none of it was unfamiliar to him. It was just another stop in an endless journey.

Satisfied that nothing stirred in the shadows, he reached for his bag. The fabric was worn, the seams barely holding together, yet the way he handled it was careful-this was everything he had. His fingers rummaged through its contents before pulling out something small, unidentifiable in the dim light.

Slowly, he brought it to his mouth.

He chewed without reaction, without taste. Whatever it was-dried, hardened, flavorless-it was food only in function, meant to keep him moving, nothing more. Each bite was slow, mechanical, as if he had long since stopped thinking about what he was eating. Hunger was an old companion, one that neither hurried him nor left him entirely.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins, but inside, he simply chewed in silence, swallowed, and moved on.

He stepped out of the gas station, his boots crunching against the dirt and shattered glass. The wind swept through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of rust, decay, and something far older-something that clung to the bones of the dead world around him.

He moved on.

His steps were steady but never hurried, his head kept low, yet his sharp, restless eyes never stopped scanning. Every broken building, every overturned car, every alleyway filled with debris-he took it all in, never lingering, never stopping longer than necessary. There was no destination, no clear path ahead, but still, he walked.

Hours passed in silence. The world was empty of life.

But not of movement.

The undead were still out there-shadows of what had once been human, stumbling in slow, jerking motions, their hollow eyes vacant yet searching. He saw them from a distance, their figures swaying in the ruins, waiting, listening. He never got too close. He didn't need to. He had long since learned that caution was worth more than any weapon.

At times, the roads became too open, too exposed. Without hesitation, he veered toward the underground. He pried open rusted sewer grates, slipping into the depths where the air was thick and foul, but safer. Darkness pressed in, the tunnels stretching in endless, suffocating silence. Yet, he moved through them as if he had done it a hundred times before, his breathing steady, his hands ready.

Above or below, it didn't matter.

He just kept moving.

His footsteps halted, the sound of his boots muffled by the damp, crumbling floor of the underground. The air was thick, humid, and stagnant, laced with the sour, metallic scent of rust, decay, and the foul stench of sewage.

The silence of the tunnels was suddenly broken by an unmistakable sound-the dragging, shuffling footsteps of the undead. Their movements were slow and mechanical. He did not flinch. He was used to it.

His sharp gaze swept across the dimly lit passage, searching for an opening. Two tunnels caught his attention-one close by, just a few steps away, and another farther ahead on the opposite side. Between them lay the remnants of what had once been flowing sewage, now reduced to a stagnant, wet trench. Both tunnels likely led to different compartments of the underground maze, from where he could climb out of a sewer grate, seal off this section, and move on.

The second tunnel, though farther, was the better choice. If he ran now, he could reach it in time, ensuring the undead wouldn't get there first. He made his decision.

But then, amidst the dissonant shuffle, a sound cut through the damp air.

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