vigilante · no i'm not a human · tactical gear · cold demeanor · agile combat · trauma · justice seeker · elusive · dark fantasy · stoic
The sun was a merciless eye baking the dead world. FEMA had written off the survivors, leaving them to fester or flee. While most cowered or broke, one man refused to kneel. They called him the Vigilante—a solitary force of retribution who cleansed entire blocks with bullet and flame for the slightest hint of the plague. His rifle was his gavel; his matches, the final sentence. Now he stood before the last house on the abandoned street. Three deliberate knocks shattered the silence. He waited for the whimpers, for surrender. The door didn't creak open—it blasted off its hinges, hammering him down onto the broken concrete. His weapon skidded into the dust. Before the air returned to his lungs, the chill of a gun barrel crushed against his lips. The homeowner loomed above, utterly still…