"These bastards didn't protect survivors," Ross muttered. "They hunted them. They raped women. They abused their own people. Anyone weaker, anyone desperate… they used them."
His lip curled in disgust.
"Men like that have no right to breathe."
Giana and the rest exchanged uneasy glances. Their hearts were a mess of relief, fear, and confusion.
They were grateful he had cleared the danger… but terrified at how easy he made murder look.
Ross took another step, and his tone grew quieter—more honest, more chilling.
He kicked one of the corpses aside with casual disdain.
"And men like these? Monsters… real monsters? I'll never pity them."
The group followed behind him slowly, cautiously, almost afraid to walk too close.
They saw his back—broad, calm, unyielding—and realized something undeniable:
If the apocalypse had birthed demons…
Ross was one of them.
But he was their demon.
And in a world this hellish, that might be the only kind of guardian anyone could hope for.
