Smoke and ash danced around Damien as he stumbled backward, chest heaving.
He could barely see through the haze — only the crimson glint of Reapers closing in.
Then—
Voice (calm, above him):
"What do you think you're doing, kid?"
Damien froze, looking up.
Through the cracks of the collapsing buildings stood a figure — a boy, maybe eighteen, dressed in black from head to toe.
A dark trench coat fluttered in the burning wind, his left eye covered by an eyepatch, a single silver cross earring glinting faintly under the red sky.
He was sitting casually atop the rubble blocking the path, legs crossed, utterly unbothered.
Damien (panting):
"Wh–Who are you…?"
Boy (expressionless):
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
Damien's mind raced — What is this guy doing here? How can he be so calm?
The boy sighed and dropped down from the rubble with a thud. His boots cracked the concrete.
Without a sound, two long swords shimmered into existence — black metal with glowing red veins pulsing along the blades.
In a blink—
he vanished.
Damien felt the wind shift.
Then — SLASH!
Blood sprayed through the air.
One by one, the Reapers dropped, their bodies collapsing in a twisted heap.
The stranger appeared behind the last of them, his blades dripping.
He flicked the blood away and finally turned, walking toward Damien with that same dull, lazy look.
Boy (glancing at Cassie):
"She won't last long… not unless she gets to a hospital soon."
His tone was so casual it almost felt cruel — like he wasn't even aware of the monsters still twitching around them.
Damien (thinking, terrified):
Is this guy insane? How can he be so calm?
The boy stopped in front of him, staring with one eye cold as stone.
Damien's strength finally gave out — his knees hit the ground.
As darkness crept into his vision, the last thing he saw was the stranger's faint smirk.
"Hmph. You're lucky I was bored."
And Damien collapsed into unconsciousness.
Damien's eyes fluttered open to the dim flicker of lantern light.
The ceiling above him was canvas — a tent. The air was thick with dust and the muffled noise of people shouting orders outside. Metal clanked. Fires crackled.
He groaned, trying to sit up, but pain shot through his ribs.
His throat was dry, his vision blurry.
Then — a soft gasp.
A girl — maybe sixteen — stood nearby, brown-haired and dirt-streaked, her torn clothes hanging loosely on her small frame. Despite everything, she had this innocent light in her eyes — fragile, but alive.
When she saw Damien awake, her eyes widened.
Without a word, she turned and bolted out of the tent.
Damien (weakly):
"Wait—! Wait! Where are you going?!"
He tried to push himself out of bed, nearly collapsing as he whispered:
"Cassie…"
Before he could fall, the tent flap opened again.
An older man stepped in — maybe in his fifties, silver hair tied back, dressed in a worn commander's coat. His face carried the kind of exhaustion only years of battle could carve.
He raised a hand calmly.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, kid. You've been through hell — literally, by the looks of it."
Damien froze, panting.
Damien:
"Who are you? Where am I? Where's Cassie?"
The man gave a small nod, keeping his voice steady.
"Cassie… that must be the girl you brought in. Don't worry — she's alive. Safe."
Damien exhaled sharply, relief flooding his chest.
The man continued, studying him.
"One of my scouts said he found you just outside the Dome. Is that true?"
Damien (confused):
"The… Dome?"
Man:
"Yeah. The giant half-sphere stretching across what's left of the city."
Damien blinked. His mind reeled.
He had lived there his whole life — but he'd never seen it.
Man (frowning):
"You're not from around here… are you?"
Damien's expression darkened. His eyes lowered, the same haunted look from before creeping back.
"No."
The man turned, motioning toward the tent's opening.
"Walk with me, son. You'll understand soon enough."
But as he took a step, Damien's hand shot forward — grabbing the pistol from the holster at the man's waist.
In one swift motion, he leveled it straight at his chest.
The man froze, hands slowly lifting in surrender.
Man (calmly):
"Easy now… you don't want to do something you'll regret."
Damien (as cold as a lazy killer):
" I'll ask again. Who are you? Where am I? And where's Cassie?"
His finger hovered over the trigger. His heart pounded.
Outside, the wind howled — and distant screams echoed under the red sky.
Damien's finger pressed on the trigger, would easily shoot give a single chance.
The man's voice was steady, weathered.
Angstrom Donor: "Name's Angstrom Donor. You're in what's left of Chicago — a small human camp."
The word Chicago lands in Damien like a blow. He stares, confused, the pistol still aimed.
Angstrom Donor (calm): "Your friend is in the tent to the left. We pulled her in with the others."
Damien's grip doesn't loosen. He backs out of the tent, keeping the gun trained on Donor as he stumbles into the open.
Outside, the world was not the city he'd imagined. It was a wasteland: ash-choked air, sun-bleached cars, buildings half-bitten by fire. People moved like ghosts — tattered clothes, hollow cheeks, eyes like dried wells. A hush fell over the camp as all heads turned to him.
For a beat, Damien felt every gaze like a verdict. Then, through the crowd, he locked eyes with the eyepatch boy — the stranger in black — who simply sat atop a pile of rubble and watched him lazily, as if bored with the whole spectacle.
Damien didn't wait. He shoved through the onlookers and darted into the tent to Cassie's side.
She lay on a crude cot, bandages wrapped around her shoulder, face pale but breathing. Relief hit him so hard his hands shook. He reached to shake her awake — when a voice cut across the tent.
Woman (calm, authoritative): "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Damien spun. A soldier stepped in: a woman in her thirties, fit and completely composed, eyes sharp. Her uniform was worn but clean; everything about her said "leader." She moved without hurry, but every step carried weight.
Damien's hand went tighter on the gun.
Woman (softly): "She's been through enough. Let her rest."
Damien (hoarse): " Who are you?"
The woman stepped closer, not flinching beneath the barrel.
Woman (steady): "You saw what's out there. Going back out now gets both of you killed. Especially when she's weak."
The words hit home — images of the blind creature, of Cassie's arm — and for a moment the pistol wavered in Damien's hand.
He was trying to find a way out, panicked and cornered, knowing he couldn't fight his way clear — not with that eyepatch boy watching and not with Cassie like this. Slowly, the gun lowered.
Woman (relieved): "Good."
She stepped closer and held out a gloved hand.
Woman: "We're not the bad guys."
Damien blinked, still tense, unsure whether to trust her. The camp's faces pressed near the tent flap — wary, hungry for news, children clinging to their parents.
Damien hesitated — then, with a motion that was more surrender than trust, he handed the pistol to her.
Woman: "I'm Sarah."
She took the weapon, then, in one swift, practiced motion, punched him square in the jaw.
The world went white for Damien.
Sarah (soft, almost apologetic): "Sorry. You needed to stop fighting long enough to sleep."
He crumpled to the cot, unconscious — the last thing he saw before the dark was Sarah's face, steady and certain, and Angstrom Donor's shadowed profile watching from outside.
Damien's head throbbed as he woke, the world swaying back into focus.
His wrists burned — tied tightly to the bedposts with thick cord. The air was dim, lit by a flickering lamp, and three silhouettes stood before him.
Angstrom Donor.
Sarah.
The boy with the eyepatch.
The tension in the tent was suffocating.
Eyepatch Boy (drawling): "'Bout time you woke up. Standing here's been hell on my legs."
Damien yanked at the ropes, furious.
Damien: "Let me go!"
Donor (calm, steady): "Easy, kid. Nobody's hurting you. We just need answers."
Damien's breathing was sharp and uneven.
Donor: "Did you come from inside the dome?"
Damien froze.
Damien: "What dome?!"
Without a word, Sarah moved to the tent's edge. She flicked open a pocket knife and sliced a clean cut through the canvas.
A blinding shaft of light pierced through.
Damien squinted — and then his eyes widened.
Outside, beyond the torn fabric, loomed an immense half-sphere in the far distance — towering, metallic, and glowing faintly like a dying sun. It stretched across the horizon, dwarfing the ruins around it.
His heart skipped a beat. That's… where I lived?
The reality hit him like a punch. The "sky" he'd grown up under wasn't real.
He turned back to the three strangers, his voice low, eyes darkening into the familiar gloom.
Damien: "...What if I did?"
Donor stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.
Donor: "Then you and your friend are… extremely precious to what's left of our world."
A pause. Damien's jaw tightened.
Damien: "What do you want from us?"
Donor smiled faintly — not kindly, but with the kind of grin that hides too many secrets.
He leaned closer, the lamplight flickering against his scarred cheek.
Donor (quietly): "Everything you know."
The words hung in the air like a sentence.
Damien's glare didn't waver, but his stomach sank — realizing for the first time that escaping the dome might have been the easiest part.
Fade to black.