Somewhere In Europe, Year—2100

The Earth was in chaos. Never before had the world seen times this dire. Ocean levels rose at an unthinkable rate, swallowing coastlines, while hurricanes and tornadoes tore through regions that had never known such violence. Schools were shut down indefinitely, private businesses collapsed—most of them for good. Hospitals operated around the clock, trying to salvage what little was left.

In the beginning, governments and law enforcement tried to maintain order, spreading awareness and enforcing strict climate protocols. People were confined to their homes in a last-ditch effort to reduce the carbon footprint—as if staying indoors could save them.

But when the President of the United States publicly resigned, abandoning the position entirely, the rest of the world understood what that truly meant: the end had begun. One by one, governments fell, leaving humanity to fend for itself.

As there were no official rulers left, humans reverted to creating their own systems of order. Makeshift communities sprang up—some democratic, others ruled by force. Warlords, cult leaders, survivalist collectives, and self-proclaimed kings took the places once held by presidents and prime ministers. Cities became fractured territories, each governed by whatever ideology or brute power had managed to rise from the rubble first.

In some places, people clung desperately to the remnants of civilization, forming councils or tribunals, trying to uphold laws that no longer held any real weight. In others, chaos reigned—violence became currency, and fear was the only language spoken. Humanity was once again tribal, scattered, and deeply afraid.

Theron Vire, the demon who was once known as Asmodeus but he hadn't quite been aware yet, was sitting in one of the bars, that had been long abandoned. He was born of a poor, working family, who had tragically died during one of the many catastrophes the Earth had brought upon his country. Working families have always been the first one to go out with the night in times like these. The rich and wealthy had tunnels underground, always ready for the doom they themselves had created. But working families had no means to create any tunnels, or bunkers. The best they could hope for was a nice little basement. But when the earthquake happens, not even that would save you.

Theron was the only one of his family left. He was only 20, his life hadn't yet begun, and yet he was forced to fend for himself already. He didn't remember much of anything—only flashes that came to him in dreams or sudden, unexplainable instincts. Like knowing how to talk someone into anything, how to lie with charm, how to spot desire in others like it was a scent. But they didn't feel like skills learned—they felt inherited. Like they had once defined him.

But Theron wasn't a prince of lust anymore. He was a twenty-year-old orphan drinking stale whiskey in an abandoned bar with no electricity, barely enough food, and a body that still trembled when the earth rumbled beneath it.

Sometimes, in the quiet, he could almost hear it—something calling out from beneath his skin, some part of him that hadn't been completely burned away in the rebirth. He'd press his fingers to his temples, trying to chase the memory of a name that danced just beyond the veil of recall. Something powerful. Something ancient.

But all he had now was Theron Vire. A nobody in a dying world.

Outside, the streets were empty. Fires still smoldered in the distance. The air tasted like rust and ash, and even the sun had grown sickly.

He hated the rich—not just for surviving, but for disappearing. The world had ended and they'd fled into the ground like cowards, leaving the rest of them behind to fight for canned food and shelter from the storms.

Theron had survived, but not because of strength. Not really. He'd survived because something inside him refused to let go. Something that didn't feel human at all.

And maybe, deep down, it wasn't.

There was a memory—or the ghost of one—that he was certain had followed him since infancy. Strange, really. Most people couldn't remember anything from when they were babies, but this... this felt like something burned into the very marrow of his being.

It wasn't a full memory. More like an ache. A knowing. A pull toward something—or someone—just out of reach.

Sometimes in his dreams, the face would come in flashes: eyes sharp and mischievous, hair like fire caught in sunlight, laughter that could start wars or end them. The features never stayed long enough for Theron to sketch them in his mind, but the feeling lingered after every dream. The weight of someone important. Someone he had to find.

He didn't know how he knew. He just... did.

The logical part of him chalked it up to wishful thinking or childhood fantasy. The rest of the world would probably call him delusional. But none of that mattered, because the instinct had never left him—not once in all twenty years.

There was someone out there. Someone chaotic. Fiery. Real.

And he would find him.

Or maybe, he thought, that person would find him first.

As he sat there, absorbed in his own thought, the door of the bar swung open. He looked up from the bar and saw a familiar face. It was a person he had created a little rebellion group with or, at this trying times, a survival group. Although it was more of a duo.

Sebastian was out for a supply hunt, carrying with himself a whole rifle, just in case someone was more desperate he was.

"I've managed to get a lot of tuna..." he trailed off and then pulled out a dead pigeon from his backpack, "oh and this. The little guy was already on the verge of death so I figured I'd lessen his suffering."

Theron grimaced. Not because he was not used to eating dead pigeons from time to time but because it wasn't such great delicacy. Every once in a while he missed McDonald's.

"The stocks are running really low," Sebastian added. "We might need to start hunting."

"If we even manage to find any live animals," Theron sighed. A lot of species of animals have gone extinct in a very short amount of time.

Sebastian slid onto the stool beside him, letting out a groan as he leaned the rifle against the bar. "You ever think about how weird it is? Sitting in a bar with no booze, no people, no music—just two dumbasses playing apocalypse."

Theron huffed a bitter laugh, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "I think about a lot of things. Weird doesn't even rank anymore."

Sebastian reached for the pigeon again, inspecting it with vague disinterest. "Think we'll ever see another cow? Or like, a bag of chips?"

Theron leaned back, arms crossed. "I think we'll see God before we see Doritos again."

That got a snort out of Sebastian. "Might not be the worst trade-off."

There was a beat of silence between them then, something a little heavier than just hunger or exhaustion. The kind that settled in after too many weeks of watching neighbors starve or vanish, after too many nights of wondering who would still be there in the morning.

Sebastian shifted again, his voice quieter now. "Hey... have you been dreaming again?"

Theron's jaw tensed.

"Because last time, you said the red-haired guy was getting clearer. Like you could almost talk to him."

Theron didn't answer right away. He stared ahead, eyes fixed on the broken mirror behind the bar. His reflection looked back at him—older than twenty, worn down by grief and survival and the quiet, constant itch in his bones that something wasn't right. His disheveled jet black hair covering most of his face and his eyes drooped, looking like he hadn't had good night's sleep for what felt like centuries.

"I saw him last night," he finally said. "Closer than ever. I think... I think he was looking for me too."

Sebastian didn't laugh. Didn't call him crazy. Instead, he simply nodded, like he understood more than he let on. "Maybe it's time you stop waiting for him to show up," he said. "Maybe it's time you go find him."

Theron turned to look at him, eyes shadowed. "And go where, exactly? The world's gone to shit, Seb."

Sebastian smiled faintly, tapping a finger to Theron's chest. "Then maybe you start here."

For a moment, the silence was reverent.

And then, something cracked outside—glass, wood, maybe bone. Both of them snapped to attention. Sebastian reached for his rifle. Theron stood, slow but ready, the adrenaline cutting clean through the fog of memory and melancholy.

The world outside wasn't done yet. And neither were they.

Theron slowly reached behind the bar, taking a hold of a crossbow. Both of them looked at each other and with a silent nod, they crept towards the door. Theron leaned against the right side of the door, Sebastian on the left, and they slowly kicked the door open. They surveyed the field before them, the garbage on the street behind them and garbage right in front of the bar. But no sign of anyone else. With a quick glance at each other, they made a silent agreement to go towards the back.

They raised their weapons the most they noticed a figure and aimed as they slowly approached the figure in the back, rustling through a dumpster. They stopped in their tracks, continuing to aim at the intruder and waiting for him, or her, to notice them. Soon enough, the person stopped rummaging through the trash, picking out some old rags and clothes that were far too ripped to be worn.

Theron and Sebastian glanced at each other with a raised eyebrow before returning the attention to the intruder. The figure finally seemed to register their presence. He turned around slowly, hands raised just slightly—enough to show he wasn't holding a weapon, but not high enough to show full surrender. The man was young, maybe their age or younger, his face thin with hunger and grime, eyes darting like a cornered animal's. His clothes were mismatched scraps barely held together, one sleeve torn completely off and shoes held with wire. He had a shaved head, probably for efficiency, but it was apparent he was a blond guy.

"I'm not here to steal from anyone," the stranger said quickly, his voice raspy, probably from lack of water more than nerves. "One of my friends has been badly injured, and I'm looking for anything to stop the bleeding."

Sebastian didn't lower his rifle. "You expect me to believe that?" He grumbled.

Theron, however, studied the man's face. There was something oddly familiar about him—not in the way someone looks like a memory, but in the energy they give off. A kind of static in the air. He couldn't explain it, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He knew that person from somewhere... Somewhere. It wasn't the dream-no. It was something different altogether.

"What's your name?" Theron asked.

The man hesitated, like even that was a dangerous question. Then, almost reluctantly, he muttered, "Seth."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "Seth what?"

"Just Seth," he said.

Sebastian scoffed. "Convenient."

But Theron didn't respond right away. Something tugged at his subconscious—like a whisper not in his ears but in his blood.

"Seth," Theron repeated, almost testing the name on his tongue. "How far is your friend?"

Seth looked surprised. "You're not going to shoot me?"

Theron lowered the crossbow slightly. "Not unless you give me a reason to. So, tell me, where is he?"

Seth blinked, as if unsure whether this sudden shift in tone was a trick. Then his shoulders dropped, and his eyes darted past them, toward the shadowy edge of the crumbling city.

"A few blocks east. Hiding out in what used to be a pharmacy. Collapsed roof, broken windows. He's losing a lot of blood... I wasn't sure he'd last long enough for me to get back."

Sebastian groaned under his breath. "This is either the dumbest setup I've ever heard, or the worst con."

But Theron's grip on the crossbow eased further. The strange pull in his chest hadn't stopped—if anything, it had grown stronger. Like he was standing on the edge of something familiar but impossible. This man—Seth—was triggering something ancient and buried in him. It wasn't memory, not really. It was older than memory.

"What's your friend's name?" Theron asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Seth hesitated again, then looked Theron straight in the eye. "Lucien."

Theron stiffened.

Sebastian picked up on it instantly. "You know him?"

"No," Theron said quickly—too quickly. "But that name... rings a bell."

A lie, maybe. Or maybe not. The name Lucien echoed in his head like it had been shouted down a long corridor. He didn't know a Lucien. But something inside him did.

Theron turned to Sebastian. "We'll go with him."

"What?" Sebastian barked. "Theron, we don't know these guys. We don't know if they're setting us up. We're low on ammo and—"

"We'll go," Theron repeated, this time firmer. "If it's a setup, we'll deal with it. But if it's not... we're not the kind of people who leave others to bleed out in the dark. Not yet."

Sebastian scowled, muttered something under his breath, then slung the rifle over his shoulder. However, they made sure Seth was walking ahead of them just in case he decided to get some funny ideas. Their boots crunched over the broken glass all across the asphalt, reminding them further of how far the world has fallen.

The buildings around them were all abandoned, or at least they appeared to be so. The holes were windows used to be were now covered with either sheets or wooden planks. No more neon signs to color the city, the street signs had mostly been stolen - they were a weapon to have in these trying times.

The pharmacy sat at the edge of what used to be a suburban strip—now a war-torn corridor of shattered glass and rusted memories. Beyond it, the town stretched like a carcass picked clean. It had no name anymore, at least not one that anyone used. The signs that once proclaimed it proudly had been torn down, graffitied over, or burned to ash. Some people still called it "Sector Eleven," a leftover from when the emergency zones were hastily mapped by the failing government. Others just called it "the Hollow."

The bones of the old town were still visible if you looked closely. A corner bakery with its display case crushed under fallen brick. A school bus, rusted and overturned in the middle of the road, spray-painted with the words NO GODS HERE in shaky, red letters. A church tower loomed above, its cross snapped clean off, pointing down toward the earth like a warning.

Nature had started to take back what humanity had lost. Ivy crawled up what remained of apartment buildings, roots cracked through the sidewalks like veins. Birds didn't sing here. Instead, there were the distant howls of wild dogs, or the occasional crack of a scavenger's gunshot echoing off the silent ruins.

The people who still lived here—if you could call it living—were ghosts in human skin. They crept through alleyways and hollow buildings, bartering scraps of food for medicine, warmth, or something less tangible—hope. Most had given up on the idea of rebuilding. They only wanted to survive long enough to see the next sunrise.

"Funny," Sebastian murmured beside him, his eyes scanning the rooftops, "how quiet the world gets when there's nothing left to lose."

Theron didn't reply. He just looked out over the ghost town, over the twisted remains of a place once called home. Somewhere in the distance, something metal clanged against stone. Then silence.

There was no wind. No sun breaking through the grey clouds overhead. Just the weight of the air, heavy with loss.

And still, somewhere beneath it all, Theron felt it—that strange pull. That hum in his blood that told him this place hadn't seen its last fire yet.

He shook his head and let out a deep sigh before shifting his focus back to Seth, who walked just a few paces ahead of them.

"So, your friend's inside the pharmacy?" Theron asked, keeping his voice low.

"Yeah. Or whatever's left of it," Seth replied quickly, his voice tight with urgency.

"Is it just the two of you?" Theron's eyes flicked toward the ruined storefront, his senses sharpening with every step.

"There used to be more of us," Seth said, almost in a whisper. "We got separated."

Theron gave a slow nod, feeling the familiar weight of loss settle over them. "Yeah. Streets aren't kind."

By then, they had reached the pharmacy. Seth reached for the cracked handle and pushed the door open with effort. It groaned on rusted hinges, swinging inward to reveal a scene of quiet devastation.

The inside was a ruin of what once might've been a lifeline. Shelves were overturned, pill bottles scattered like bones across the floor. Faded labels, dusty wrappers, and broken glass littered every corner. The air was stale, heavy with mold and something fainter—blood, maybe, or just time decaying in silence.

Strips of sunlight filtered through a collapsed section of the ceiling, casting crooked rays across the mess. A shattered freezer unit buzzed somewhere in the back, long empty and forgotten. The smell of damp rot lingered, too familiar now to wrinkle their noses.

Theron raised his crossbow slightly as they stepped inside. "Call out to your friend. Quietly," he said to Seth, voice edged with caution.

Seth didn't hesitate. "Lucien?" he called, not too loud, but loud enough to carry through the broken silence. "It's me. I brought help."

Nothing came back at first. Just the low hum of the dying building around them.

Then—a faint sound. A sharp inhale. A soft groan.

"Back here!" a voice rasped, weak but alive.

Theron and Sebastian exchanged a look. Weapons still raised, they moved deeper into the wreckage, stepping over broken shelves and spilled syringes. And as they moved toward the sound, Theron couldn't shake the chill crawling down his spine. Something about this moment felt... too familiar. Like he'd walked into it before. In a dream, or a memory that hadn't happened yet.

And somewhere, in the quiet ruins of the pharmacy, a story was beginning to stir awake.