"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." — Friedrich Nietzsche
About eight miles from the ruin where Thomas and Aria hid after defeating the Trophy Hunter, Marcus and Quinn stood amid the remains of an old apartment complex.
They were enjoying a rare moment of calm—casually ignoring the chaos outside.
Much like Thomas and Aria before Malik had found them, they had chosen silence over survival frenzy.
It wasn't that they found running a drag. They simply refused to throw themselves into unnecessary danger when they didn't have to.
They weren't as strong as Malik, Thomas, Aria, or Layla—but neither were they weak.
After barely surviving their first hunt, they devoted every waking hour to training. To them, improvement was survival; every pain was an instrument of survival.
Since that day, they had made one promise—to make finding them as painful as possible.
Even after becoming stronger, they agreed that facing the Vexari head-on meant certain death. They often underestimated themselves, yet when cornered, they were as ruthless as the monsters hunting them.
They had become adept at vanishing, always knowing where to hide, when to move, and how to wait. Still, there were times when even their perfect plan failed, forcing them to run again.
The Vexari never used surveillance in their hunts. Despite their advanced technology, their methods remained primal.
Hunting was sacred to them—a spectacle, a ritual of ascension. The chase itself was their devotion.
Two hours and thirty minutes into the hunt, Marcus and Quinn were still resting as though the world outside meant nothing.
They had always worked together and had somehow survived nearly a month this way—longer than most.
Marcus Train, a man in his late twenties, stood six feet tall—broad-shouldered, built from labor and survival. His skin bore the bronze tint of years under Australia's sun, and his forearms were traced with scars from both concrete and combat.
His short, sandy-blond hair framed a rugged face, gray-blue eyes bright with sarcasm even in despair.
Before the invasion, Marcus had been a construction foreman by day and a street fighter by night. Fighting wasn't for glory—it was his release, a way to silence the noise inside.
Raised in Brisbane's rougher districts by a mother who worked two jobs after his father vanished into the mines, Marcus learned early that strength was its own language.
When the Vexari came, he was out with friends at a fighting match. Most of them died in the first strike. He made his way home too late—his mother already dead and buried beneath the rubble.
In shock, he roamed the ruins until the landing soldiers found him. He fought back, but his strength meant nothing to the Vexari weapon and armor. They captured him alive.
On the ranch, he adapted quickly. Calculated, tactical, he trained obsessively, thinking always of revenge. But he was patient.
He would not die a meaningless death before fulfilling that purpose. When cornered, however, he fought like a man who had already made peace with dying.
Quinn Murphy, barely twenty-four, was Marcus's opposite—lean, sharp, precise.
At 5'10", he moved like water through confined spaces, his wiry muscles forged from years in MMA circuits across Sweden and Northern Europe. His blond hair was cropped short, his icy-blue eyes carrying a glint of humor even amid blood and ruin.
Born in Gothenburg, Quinn idolized fighters as a boy, glued to bootleg UFC streams every night. His mother disapproved; his father encouraged him—"Better to fight with discipline than rage," he'd said.
By eighteen, Quinn had become known for patience and counterstrikes—a fighter who waited for his moment rather than forcing it.
When the invasion began, he was mid-match in Oslo. The ceiling split before the final bell.
The sky bled fire. Screams turned metallic as the ships descended. He escaped with a few survivors, hiding in the ruins for weeks before their refuge was raided.
Captured, he woke later on the ranch.
To him, survival became another fight—different rules, same rhythm.
He analyzed every hunt, memorizing terrains. If he saw something once, he never forgot. Since the grounds constantly changed, his mind became their map.
When he and Marcus worked together, even seasoned hunters struggled.
Marcus's strength and calculated ferocity paired perfectly with Quinn's agility and perception. They covered each other's flaws—a perfect balance. Two halves of the same piece.
Now, back in the ruins, Marcus lay on the floor, boots scraping the cracked wall. The apartment had long surrendered its purpose—windows blown open to the wind.
He took a bite from a ration tucked inside his vest and glanced at Quinn, who sat cross-legged near a shattered window, sharpening a jagged metal shard on a stone.
"Feels quiet," Marcus muttered. "Too quiet."
Quinn smirked. "You say that every time it's quiet. And yet you keep munching like we're not in the middle of a damn hunt. You'd think they'd inspect us before dropping us here."
Marcus shrugged. "Every time I'm right. Quiet means something's coming. And they don't care about a little stashed food. A man's useless if he's hungry."
"Yeah, yeah," Quinn replied, rolling his eyes.
He turned to the window, scanning the horizon of ruins bathed in fading light. "You worry too much. We've got maybe less than half an hour before the mist rolls in. You think any of those bastards would bother this late?"
Marcus cracked his neck. "They don't think like us. For them, this isn't just killing—it's entertainment."
Quinn chuckled, his Swedish accent cutting through. "Then let's hope they don't find us. My ass wouldn't like the taste of an alien weapon."
They both smiled—a rare flicker of humor.
A tremor rippled through the floor. Both froze.
Marcus raised a hand—silence.
A shadow slid across the far wall—tall, slender, wrong. The kind of shadow that moved even when the light didn't.
"Hunter," Marcus whispered.
Quinn rose silently, gripping the shard of metal, breath steady. Their eyes met—no panic, just understanding.
The creature slow moving through the building, tentacles flaring in rhythm, emerald eyes gleaming. A Starter Hunter. Its skin shimmered under fractured light, the tip the his spear glimmered with Zark energy.
Quinn whispered, "We shouldn't fight that."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Didn't plan to. We run."
"Go!"
They jumped through the window. Boots struck the ground, and they bolted through the bushes into the ruins.
The Hunter followed—steps heavy, deliberate, predatory certainty in every motion.
They dashed through broken streets, weaving between rusted cars and shattered pillars.
A spear hissed past, close enough to slice the air beside Quinn's ear as he evaded with ease.
"Left!" Quinn shouted.
They turned sharply, diving into a vine-choked alley. Pressed against the wall, they caught their breath.
The Hunter's shadow darkened the entrance. Its silhouette filled the space, towering like a nightmare.
Quinn whispered, voice trembling, "We're cornered."
Marcus's gaze hardened. "Not yet."
The Hunter's spear lifted in the shadows—then lowered it immediately and began to move away. A deep, faint movement rolled through the ruins, low but growing.
Both turned toward the horizon.
A cloud of purple smoke was spreading fast—curling, twisting, devouring everything in its path.