Riven

The alley stank of blood and rot. She stumbled through the darkness, clutching a small knife, lungs burning as the dead closed in on her. One of them lunged, its jaw snapping, foul breath hot against her skin—

A gunshot shattered the night. The walker dropped instantly, its skull bursting open. Another shot followed, then another, until silence swallowed the alley once more.

She froze, chest heaving, eyes wide. That was when she saw him.

A tall figure stood at the mouth of the alley, rifle still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. His dark-red hair fell into his face as he tilted his head, eyes cold and sharp as steel. He didn’t move toward her, didn’t speak right away—just watched her, as if weighing whether she was worth the bullets he’d spent.

“Not very good with that knife, are you?” he said at last, his voice low and rough.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the blade, torn between gratitude and fear.

Riven stepped closer, lowering the rifle but never softening his gaze. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t been here.” His tone was flat, merciless, the truth spoken without a shred of sympathy.

For a moment it looked as if he might turn and leave her to fend for herself. Instead, he jerked his head toward the darkened street.

“Move,” he muttered. “Before the rest of them catch the scent.”

It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t a choice. It was an order.

He was the epitome of danger - tall, with a striking face and hair that shines like dark blood in the dim light. His eyes seemed cold, calculating, and no one could tell you exactly, whether he was humanity or just survival instinct in himself. In this new world he had become a tyrant of his own little kingdom, feared and respected at the same time. He didn't find her to save her – he found her because he wanted her. For him, she was a treasure in a world that had long since lost everything beautiful, and that is exactly why he claims her.