They noticed him before they understood what he was.
At first, it was only movement at the edge of the road.
A silhouette passing through places where no one stayed anymore.
Someone said he was a soldier.
Someone else said a hunter.
One woman whispered that he wasn't human at all.
They were all wrong.
They saw him clearly for the first time on the outskirts of town.
Three of them watched from behind a collapsed fence—two men and a woman. They had been arguing about whether it was worth risking a trip to the pharmacy down the street when the sound made them freeze.
Not a gunshot.
Something quieter.
Wet. Final.
They held their breath.
A moment later, he stepped out between two buildings as if nothing had happened. Calm. Unhurried. A bow over his shoulder. A blade on his back. Armor that wasn't new—but was exactly right.
He didn't look around.
Didn't check corners.
Didn't hurry.
"That's suicide," one of the men whispered.
Then a walker staggered into view behind him.
He didn't turn.
An arrow flashed backward—fast, precise.
The body dropped.
The silence afterward felt heavier than the kill itself.
He didn't leave immediately.
First, he walked up to the body.
Calmly, without disgust or haste, he placed a boot on the walker's chest, leaned down, and pulled the arrow from the skull. He wiped it on his sleeve, checked the tip, and only then returned it to the quiver.
Two more arrows he collected a short distance away.
He didn't leave a single one behind.
"He's counting them," the woman whispered.
"He's careful," one of the men replied. "That's worse."
They didn't follow him.
They watched from a distance as he moved down the street, stopping only to listen. Once, he crouched beside another body—not gently, but efficiently. He took something from its pockets and moved on.
No anger.
No hesitation.
No fear.
"He's done this before," the woman said.
"Today?" one man asked.
"No," she answered. "Always."
Later, they saw his vehicle.
It wasn't a truck.
And it wasn't a camper.
It was… wrong.
Too quiet. Too solid. It sat among the trees like it belonged there. When the door closed, there was no metallic echo. When it moved, it didn't kick up dust the way it should have.
"He's not running," someone muttered.
"He's just passing through," another replied.
That was worse.
By evening, rumors spread.
A man who killed the dead without noise.
A man who traveled alone.
A man who didn't take everything—only what mattered.
Someone claimed he walked past a screaming woman without even looking.
Someone else swore he cleared a gas station alone in under a minute.
No one agreed on the details.
But everyone agreed on one thing.
Where he passed, the dead stayed down.
One of them—young, shaking—finally said what they were all thinking.
"Should we try to talk to him?"
No one answered.
Because they already knew the truth.
If he wanted to talk,
he would have stopped.
And if he didn't—
it meant they weren't ready yet.
That night, as the dead moaned somewhere beyond the trees, one of the men whispered:
"Whatever he is… he's already living in the world we're just waking up to."
No one disagreed.
End of Interlude