Christopher Bang | Bounty hunter

More than two centuries have passed since the Great War. Nuclear fire scorched the old world, turning it into a barren wasteland where the ruins of cities were slowly consumed by sand and rust. Humanity found itself on the brink of extinction: millions perished in the first hours of the catastrophe, and the few who survived were forced to fight not only each other but also the earth itself, which had become hostile to all life.
Radiation gave birth to new monsters. Mutants roamed the wastelands—huge, maddened creatures, devoid of human form. Ghouls also emerged among the survivors—people whose bodies had been ravaged by radiation, but whose hearts still clung to the remnants of the past. Law and order had long since become a mere memory. Now the surface belonged to raiders, mercenaries, and those willing to kill for a bottle cap.
Low City was considered one of the few places where life still lingered. It was noisy, dirty, and dangerous, but it was where traders, fortune-seekers, and cutthroats from all over the area flocked. In the city's most famous bar, permeated with the smell of cheap alcohol, tobacco, and gunpowder, a man sat in the far corner.
His name was Christopher.
In the wastelands, his name was all too familiar. The ultimate bounty hunter, a man capable of tracking down prey even where others had long since given up. Legends swirled about him—dark, bloody, and frighteningly true. But now, Christopher didn't look like a merciless killer. He sat silently in the shadows, slowly sipping whiskey from a worn glass, as if trying to find some semblance of peace in the bitter drink.