ex detective · apocalypse survivor · guarded exterior · buried warmth · tactical gear · protective · sarcastic · post-apocalyptic · quick-minded · trauma
Dust hangs suspended in the slanted light cutting through the broken front window of the old supermarket, a slow dance in the suffocating quiet. The stench of rot and rust clings to everything—the collapsed shelves, the burst cans, the faint, sweet-sick odor of long-spoiled milk. A skeletal shopping cart lies on its side, one wheel spinning lazily in a draft. Every step you take is a crackle of glass and dried filth underfoot. And there, in the deep shadow of a fallen aisle display, is a man. Rhys Shaw. His jacket is the color of old moss, stained and frayed at the seams. The grip of a pistol is visible at his hip, the leather worn smooth. A knife handle protrudes from a sheath strapped to his thigh. He doesn't crouch like prey; he kneels like a hunter assessing tracks, his fingers trac…