The world was quiet. Too quiet.
The air reeked of something acrid—burnt flesh, blood, and the sharp tang of something long decayed. Buildings, once towering and proud, now lay in ruins, their skeletal remains jutting out like broken ribs from the earth. The streets were unrecognizable, swallowed by a darkness that was not of the night, but something far worse.
Something that devoured.
In the heart of it all stood a lone figure. Unmoving. Silent. Watching.
Their presence was an enigma—an absence in the shape of a human. Their shadow did not stretch or flicker under the dim, wavering flames that still struggled to survive in the wreckage. Their body was untouched, pristine, as if the devastation around them had simply chosen to avoid them. But the truth was far more terrifying.
Nothing had avoided them.
Everything had been consumed.
A pile of corpses lay at their feet—though calling them 'corpses' would be generous. The bodies were husks, shriveled and hollowed out, as if their very essence had been drained, leaving behind only paper-thin remnants of what once were people. Their faces were twisted in agony, their mouths frozen mid-scream. But no sound had escaped.
Not even their deaths had been spared.
The figure finally moved, tilting their head as if listening to something beyond mortal perception. Then, ever so slowly, they exhaled. A breath that carried no warmth. No life. Just a void where life should be.
A crackle of static. The buzz of a broken radio buried beneath the rubble.
"This is…—ing team… anyone… alive?"
Alive?
The figure's lips curved—just barely, just enough for a whisper of amusement to slip through.
There was no one left.
The last embers of light flickered. The shadows stretched, deepened, until they swallowed everything whole.
And then—nothing.
Silence.