Chapter 1: The Fall
The world ended on a Tuesday.
Axel Reed didn't realize it at first. Sirens were background noise in the city, and the news had cried wolf before—outbreak this, virus that. But that morning, when he sprinted across the college courtyard with blood soaking through his hoodie, he knew it wasn't a drill.
They were dead.
And they were walking.
He shoved open the chemistry lab door, nearly slipping in someone's blood. His friends—Logan, Myra, and Ellis—were huddled by the windows, whispering prayers to gods that clearly weren't listening. Axel had three things in his backpack: two bottles of water, a box cutter, and a switchblade he'd never used. That would have to be enough.
"We need to move," he said, voice flat, calm in a way that scared even him.
They listened. They followed. For hours, they crawled through broken buildings and back alleys, past burning cars and screaming children. Axel led them—sharp, focused, unstoppable.
Until a car pulled up.
A man inside shouted, "Room for three!"
Axel turned to count heads, just as Logan pushed past him. Myra and Ellis followed. No hesitation. No goodbye. No loyalty.
Just survival.
They left him behind like he was already dead.
Walkers poured around the corner like a wave of rot. Axel ran. Blood in his eyes, cuts on his arms, lungs burning—but he made it. He survived.
He always would.
-
By the time Axel got home, night had already fallen.
He could barely feel his legs. His hoodie was stiff with dried blood—none of it his, or at least he hoped not. The streets had gone silent, like the world was holding its breath. No sirens now. No screams. Just wind, and the shuffle of the dead somewhere far off.
The front door was open.
Not cracked. Not broken. Just open.
A strange, quiet dread slid into his chest as he stepped inside. His house—his goddamn house—was dark, still, and wrong. The air reeked of iron and rot. His boots echoed softly on the floor as he walked through the hallway, calling out once, "Mom? Dad?"
Nothing.
He turned the corner into the living room.
And everything inside him shattered.
His mother lay crumpled near the fireplace, blood pooled beneath her as if she had collapsed mid-crawl. Her hand was outstretched toward the door. Her eyes were still open. Frozen in terror.
His father was slumped against the far wall, back scorched with gunpowder burns. His chest was riddled with small, tight bullet holes. Execution style. The blood had dried down his shirt in thick, black rivers. A large chunk of his head was missing—half his face gone, like whoever did it wanted to send a message.
Axel fell to his knees.
He couldn't even scream. The sound caught in his throat and died there. His fingers dug into the carpet. Tears stung his eyes, but they didn't fall. His body trembled, but he didn't move. He didn't breathe.
He just sat there.
For hours, maybe.
Then, slowly, he reached up to the side table—where his father had always left his cigarettes. The pack was still there. Open. Waiting.
Axel pulled one out with shaking hands and lit it with the old brass lighter sitting beside it.
The smoke hit his lungs like fire. He coughed hard, nearly dropped it. It was awful. Bitter. Burning.
But he kept smoking.
And that was when he saw it.
Behind his father's body, smeared onto the blood-stained wall, was a mark. A crude symbol—roughly drawn in black ash and oil. Three slashes forming a triangle, with a circle in the center.
He didn't recognize it. But something in his gut turned.
This wasn't just looters. This was a group. Organized. Cold. The kind of people who left a message.
He didn't know who they were.
But he knew what he would do.
He'd find them. No matter how far. No matter how long. He would bury every last one of them.
And when he did, he'd make them feel what he felt.
He stared at the mark on the wall for what felt like forever.
A twisted symbol. A promise of violence. A trail to follow.
But then something slammed into his chest—like a fist made of guilt and memory.
His little brother.
Eli.
Eight years old. Always smiling, always barefoot, always talking about superheroes. He should've been home. He should've been in his room. Axel's hands twitched. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and fell to the blood-soaked floor.
He prayed.
To gods he never believed in.
"If he's alive," Axel whispered, voice cracking, "I'll let it go. I'll walk away. I won't chase revenge. I'll protect him, and that'll be enough…"
He climbed the stairs like a ghost.
Each step heavier than the last. The house creaked under his weight, but nothing else moved. The hallway was still. Eli's door was cracked open.
Axel pushed it wider.
And the world died again.
The room smelled of rust and rot. Toys were scattered across the floor—Superman, a broken crayon, a small teddy bear missing an eye.
On the bed lay Eli.
Or what was left of him.
His head was gone—clean cut at the neck. His chest was full of stab wounds, a dozen at least, like someone took their time. Knife holes. Deep, cruel, personal. His arms and legs were gone, butchered and tossed aside like garbage. Blood painted the mattress, the walls, the floor.
The only untouched thing was the drawing still pinned to the wall—Eli's family picture. Stick figures. "Me, Mom, Dad, Axel."
Axel dropped to his knees.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
He just sat there, trembling.
The pain started in his chest, then spread—like rot through flesh, like fire through bone. His hands clenched the floor until his knuckles split open. His breathing turned ragged. Shallow. Silent.
Hours passed.
The sun came up and burned through the window, but he didn't move.
Then, slowly, Axel stood.
Something inside him had snapped.
His hair, once black as ash, had changed. Streaks of pale silver now ran through it like scars, glowing softly in the light. Pain had etched itself into his body—permanent, physical. His reflection would never look the same.
That day, the boy who was Axel Reed died.
What rose from that room was something else. Something cold. Quiet. Cursed.
And hunting.
.
.
.
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