Rosalia — POV
The roar of engines shattered the silence of the ruined highway. It wasn't the tired hum of some lone car still clinging to life, nor the uneven cough of an engine begging to die. No—this was thunder. Deep, unrelenting, it rolled across the empty wasteland, bouncing between the rusted skeletons of cars, rattling broken glass in their frames. The sound was so heavy it felt alive, pressing into my chest, dragging the breath out of me.
The dead heard it too.
At the roadside, a half-rotted figure lifted its head, milky eyes twitching toward the noise. Another jerked upright from where it had been gnawing at a scrap of leather, jaw swinging open as a wet groan escaped its throat. The sound carried through them like fire in dry grass. Limbs twitched, spines arched, and one after another, they began to move.
Clumsy feet scraped asphalt. Hands clawed against metal. The corpses that had been wandering in sluggish confusion suddenly lunged with purpose. They slammed against car doors, their nails screeching down the paint, their hunger reawakened. Some battered at windows where dried blood already stained the glass, jealous of the feasts locked inside. Others staggered into the road itself, colliding with one another in their blind rush toward the sound.
It was horrifying, yes—but also mesmerizing. The noise had turned the dead into a tide.
And the road was already a graveyard.
Cars of every shape clogged the highway, their bright colors dulled by a coat of ash and dust. Family vans with toys still scattered on the seats. Luxury sedans with spider-webbed windshields. Delivery trucks tipped half-on their sides, boxes split open, their contents long since stolen or devoured. Some held bodies slumped over the wheel, flesh wasted to bone. Others held nothing but stains—ghosts of terror burned into the seats.
I could almost hear the screams. The moment it all began—when the world panicked, when people stampeded, when desperation turned into a pile-up that became a tomb.
Now there was only silence. Silence—and the growl of engines.
Because beyond the wreckage, farther down the cracked asphalt, the scene changed. The congestion ended as though some giant hand had swept the way clean. The road stretched empty ahead.
Completely empty.
And that was why I saw them.
The sun burned overhead, merciless, turning the blacktop into a griddle. Heat waves shimmered, twisting the air into mirages. Sweat crawled down my back, soaking into my shirt until it clung. Every step felt heavier, as if the light itself wanted to pin me down.
I raised my eyes, shielding them with a shaking hand. For one breathless instant, I thought I was hallucinating. Dark shapes wavered at the horizon, blurred by the heat. Beasts? Monsters? My chest locked tight. Then the air cleared, just for a heartbeat, and I saw them for what they were.
Jeeps.
Black jeeps.
One after another, rolling into view with the steady rhythm of soldiers marching in formation. The sun struck their frames, and the metal gleamed like obsidian.
The noise grew louder, a metallic thunder that set my teeth on edge. Tires ground against the cracked asphalt, throwing spirals of dust into the air. They didn't rush; they didn't falter. They came with the certainty of predators closing in.
Five. Six. Maybe more. Each identical, each cloaked in the same shadowed menace.
I knew. At once. Without question.
It was them.
They slowed as they reached the wreckage. The first jeep braked, and the rest followed with military precision, one by one, until the whole convoy rolled to a halt. Their engines idled, a low, steady growl that seemed to vibrate in my bones.
And I—idiot that I was—stood right at the edge of the road. Barely a few steps from the lead jeep.
(Damn it. Damn it! How could I let this happen? I'd been too excited, too desperate. I'd dreamed of this moment so long that I forgot to think, forgot to hide. Now here I was, standing in the open like a fool, exposed.)
My mind spun, scraping for words, excuses, anything that would make sense. But nothing came. Nothing at all.
Before I could gather myself, the doors opened.
The sound was sharp, final—metal hinges shrieking as one, boots striking asphalt. The synchronized motion sent a jolt through me. My heart punched against my ribs. I hadn't even been given three seconds. My thoughts melted, my veins ran hot, my entire body quivered.
And then he stepped out.
The door of the first jeep swung wide, and a leg descended. Long. Powerful. Clad in black trousers that matched the vehicle's gleaming hide. That one motion alone nearly sent me to my knees.
Could a single leg strip the soul from a body?
No. Not the leg.
The man.
When he stood, the world ceased to exist.
I had never seen such beauty in life. No, that wasn't true. I had seen him before—but only in pieces. In dreams. In fragments of memory torn from another world. His back retreating into darkness. His eyes dimmed as blood spilled. His body was collapsing, alone.
Cassel.
The fortress I had built my spirit on. The unyielding mountain that bore coldness and hardship without breaking. The man I had sworn myself to—my envy, my devotion, my soul. His life. His happiness.
He stood nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered and carved with strength. His frame was made for battle, every line of it honed, unyielding. His brows were thick and dark, shadowing eyes that swallowed light whole. His hair, black and unruly, brushed against his ears.
Those eyes—God. They were an abyss. Cold. Terrifying. Endless. And yet when they locked on me, I felt no fear. None at all. Instead, peace stole through me, warm and dizzying.
Peace. Tenderness. Love.
A happiness I had never known in twenty years of suffocating under my family's disdain. A happiness I had found only in him, even before I ever stood in this place.
His skin was pale but not weak—sun-kissed just enough to speak of long days of work, of carrying burdens no one else could. He looked like a man who had labored himself raw, who would never allow another to bear his weight.
Shadows circled his eyes, bruised and deep. He hadn't slept. I would stake my life on it. Perhaps not last night. Perhaps not for many nights. But Cassel had always been that way—even before the end, when he spent sleepless weeks hunched over his experiments, chasing a future no one else believed in.
The thought hit like fire. Rage burned through me. Night after night, my beloved Cassel had suffered while those parasites mocked him, pushed him, used him.
(Those bastards. One day, I'll end them. Every last one. I swear it.)
While I drowned in his presence, he moved. Cassel stepped forward, steady, unafraid of infection, unshaken by risk. Every stride was deliberate, as though the road itself bent to carry him.
"Boss."
"Boss, wait. The dead—"
"Boss, what are you—"
Voices rose behind him, but they blurred, meaningless noise against the weight of him drawing nearer. The world shrank until only he remained, until the air itself bent around us.
Cassel stopped before me.
And he stared.
His eyes stripped me bare. I felt my soul peel open under that gaze, felt him take me apart, piece by piece, until nothing remained but raw truth.
But I knew him. I knew what hid behind that silence. He wasn't captivated—he was calculating. Weighing. Measuring. Deciding if I was a danger. If I were something to be cut down before it threatened his men.
A tremor ran through me. Fear coiled tight. And yet—twisted, shameful—another thought whispered: if those broad, scarred hands ended me, would that be such a terrible way to go?
(No. No! Snap out of it. You can't die. Not here. Not now. Your life doesn't belong to you—it belongs to him. To his future. To his happiness. Live, no matter what. Live for Cassel.)
My throat scraped raw as I forced the words out.
"Sir… please, could you take me somewhere safe?"
My voice cracked, thin as glass, but it carried.
He didn't answer. Cassel's gaze stayed locked on me, unblinking, unreadable.
Anyone else would see nothing. But I knew. I knew him. The faint raise of his brow—two millimeters at most. The subtle tilt of his head—five degrees, no more.
Signs of doubt.
(How do I know? Don't ask. If I didn't know every detail, would I even deserve to call myself his fangirl?)
I clutched at the chance, desperate. "Sir, please. I'm scared. I ran from Ghoul University. I don't know where else to go."
Then I remembered—the bag.
The weight at my side, stuffed with everything I'd scrounged, everything meant for him.
I held it out, blurting, "I have food. A lot. I raided a store on the way—canned goods, meat, anything I could carry. Please… take me with you."
Still, silence.
Yes, I loved that silence. His coldness. His refusal to waste words. But not now. Not when my life dangled by a thread. Would it kill him to speak? Just one word?
What if he refused? What if he left me here?
My grip tightened until the straps bit into my palms. Then, suddenly, a shadow moved. One of the men behind him stepped forward, swift, certain. A hand—broad, calloused—snatched the bag from mine.
(What the—)
The thought froze the instant I saw his face. Recognition jolted through me.
I knew him.
One of Cassel's personal guards. His closest. His shadow.
Not because he was the strongest, though strength radiated from him. No—because loyalty bound him. Because when the world ended and bonds broke, when men abandoned one another to survive, he stayed. When others died, he stood. When families crumbled, he became Cassel's family.
But I knew the story. I knew their fate.
One by one, they would fall. Betrayed by Cassel's half-brother, destroyed by his father's venom. And this man… this man would be the last. Not because fate spared him, but because his bond held out longest.
His name surfaced like a whisper from memory.
What was it again? Han...
Han… Han…
Yes. Henry Macliff.
That was it.