One year later....
Max's POV:
It's been three hundred and sixty-five days since the world ended and monsters poured into our streets.
They called that day Armageddon.
And not because anyone was particularly religious about it, but because no other word could describe the terror and destruction that day reminded us about.
In a single afternoon, the census of the human race was rewritten in blood. Ten percent of us died in the initial chaos—crushed by falling buildings or caught in the crossfire of a collapsing civilization. In other words, killed by monsters.
But that was the lucky group.
Fifty percent of the population didn't die; they changed. They twisted into monsters that shouldn't exist, horrors of flesh and malice that now claim the ruins of our cities as their hunting grounds.
That left the remaining forty percent of us to pick up the pieces. To crawl into whatever holes we could find and tried not to die.
And out of that forty percent, only two percent of humans woke up with something extra; Superpowers. Gifts. Whatever you wanna call it.
These people developed extraordinary abilities. Some could shoot flames from their hands, or summon lightning from their fingertips, or move faster than the human eye could track.
We called them the Awakened.
They are the ones with the power to push back, the ones who can actually trade blows with the monsters.
While the rest of us? We're just the background noise.
No one knew why or how the apocalypse happened. And no one had the time to figure it out. We all just wanted to survive.
Anyway, just like every typical apocalypse, refugee shelters had risen across the globe. Built by the military and whatever government bodies hadn't been eaten yet.
These shelters were scattered across every country. Five to ten per nation, give or take. The one in what used to be central California was one of seven major ones left in the United States—and it'd been my home for the past one year.
Resources should have been scarce... but they weren't. Because a strange thing occurred after Armageddon: treasures started appearing across the globe. Gold, diamonds, rare metals, even artifacts no one recognized. But just like in mmorpgs, most of these resources were hidden in dungeons, caves, ruined temples, or the lairs of top-grade monsters.
The math was simple: Kill the guardian, claim the prize.
Which meant if you wanted the good stuff, you have to go into high level hunting grounds and risk your life. So basically, the more likely you are to die, the better the loot.
And who better to go into these dungeons than the ones gifted with supernatural abilities?
Because of that, the Awakened became royalty. If you could throw fire, heal a shattered limb, or simply move faster, you will be treated like a god. And since there are only few awakened in the world, they were in high demand.
Each shelter had only a handful of awakened — three or four if lucky, and their value was immeasurable. They got the best food, private quarters, and immense priority on everything.
Shelters with more resources would try to lure awakened from other shelters, offering better protection, luxury, and influence. It was politics all over again. Apocalypse politics. The Awakened were the celebrities everyone wanted on their team.
And Maxine was one of the most wanted.
Her flames could melt steel, carve through concrete, or dance around like a scalpel whenever she pleased. She was a literal fire mage. And word spread fast about capabilities.
Texas wanted her. New York offered private apartments and unlimited ammo. Even the West Coast elite shelters sent recruiters with honeyed words and fat contracts.
But Maxine turned every single one down. She decided to stay in the dusty, sun-baked California outpost, for reasons she never quite said out loud.
And wherever she went, I went.
Oh, and FYI, I didn't get any special abilities, so, I'm just a normal guy. A guy who was given everything in the old world—the silver spoon, the easy life. But now, I'm a guy who has nothing. No fire in my palms, no super strength. I've got my wits and my instincts, but instincts don't do much when a ten-foot-tall Minotaur is trying to bite your head off. I can use a gun, sure, but I'm a mediocre shot at best.
The military leaders put me in the Recon Squad—but only as a favor to Maxine. They know if they kick me out or put me on sewage duty, she might finally take one of those offers from the New York or Texas shelters. Which means I'm nothing but a human tether. A useless liability kept on a leash of pity.
And I hate it.
I hate being powerless. I hate watching others become legends while I stay useless. And I hate the monsters most of all.
Every morning I wake up with anger in my chest. Angry at the world, angry at the monsters, and mostly, angry at myself. I look at those things outside the walls of the shelter and I don't just feel fear; I feel a hunger to see them extinguished. I want them all dead.
Every. Last. One of them.
But for now, I'm just Max. The weak guy who watches, while others fight.
I still hope for a change... for a sort of miracle to end all this nightmare, or maybe just for the universe to take pity and grant me an ability as well. So I can finally fight alongside Maxine. It's all I want.
But wanting something meant nothing here. Every day was survival. And survival meant living without knowing if you'd still be breathing tomorrow. That's just how the world is now:
Survive until the day you die.
.....
California Shelter, San Francisco,
United States.
The sun was beginning to dip below the reinforced steel walls of the California Refuge Shelter, casting long, jagged shadows across the dusty central plaza.
The shelter sprawled across what used to be an old military base and a few surrounding industrial lots. From the outside, it looked like a fortress: high concrete walls, razor wire coiled like angry serpents, guard towers with mounted machine guns sweeping slow arcs across the wasteland. Inside, it was a city of survivors pretending the world hadn't ended.
Tents and makeshift shacks filled the outer rings. Communal halls where hundreds slept on cots stacked three high. Cookfires burned day and night, sending thin smoke into the perpetually gray sky. Kids chased each other through the dirt paths between supply crates. Guards in patched fatigues patrolled with rifles slung low. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of fear that never quite went away.
In the center were the houses. Real houses. Repurposed officer quarters and admin buildings, patched up, painted, and guarded. That was where the important people lived. Officers. Engineers. Doctors. Even the Awakened. And in the California shelter, there were only two, including Maxine.
Life here was a grind of survival.
Near the construction docks, a teenage boy leaned his shoulder against a crate filled with rusted rebar, wiping a mixture of sweat and grime from his forehead with a sleeve that had more holes than fabric.
This was Max. The one and only.
His frame, once pampered and soft, had leaned out significantly over the year. He looked wiry, gaunt, and perpetually bruised. His hands were calloused now, his knuckles scabbed from old scrapes.
He'd spent the last twelve hours doing the Heavy Grunt work; from hauling crates to lifting debris—the kind of backbreaking labors usually reserved for those who couldn't even afford a tent.
"Come on, Lad! Heave!" A voice barked from beside Max.
The shout snapped him out of his thoughts. He dug his boots into the mud, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the handle of the crate of rusted rebar.
"On three!" the foreman, a burly man with a missing eye, bellowed. "One, two, three!"
Max grunted, every muscle in his lean frame screaming as he and three other men lifted the crate onto the back of a transport truck. The metal scraped against the bed, a jarring screech that set his teeth on edge.
Max stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead. He panted, his chest heaving. A year ago, he would have been in an air-conditioned classroom complaining about calculus. Now, his hands were calloused and wrapped in dirty bandages, his face gaunt, his ribs showing faintly through his stained t-shirt.
"Alright, kid. That's the last one," the foreman said, flicking a digital credit chip at him. "That's your pay. Don't spend it all on booze."
Max caught the chip with practiced reflex. "Thanks, Jack." He placed it over his wrist-comp and checked the balance.
[Balance: 450 Credits]
A rare, genuine smile cracked his dirty face. He'd been saving credits for months. Combining all the money he got from the heavy grunt works with the meager pay from his Recon missions, all so he could afford a peculiar gift for Maxine's birthday, which was today.
And finally, he had enough.
As Max left the construction docks, he headed straight for the Downtown Market, a row of tents where scavengers sold loot found in the monster-infested city ruins.
"Mr. Vulture," Max greeted, stepping into a dimly lit tent that smelled of incense and rust.
The shopkeeper, a hunchbacked old man with greed etched into his wrinkles, looked up from a pile of scrap. "Maxwell. You're late. I was just about to close."
"I was working," Max said, walking to the glass display case at the back. "Do you still have it?"
Vulture sneered but reached under the counter. He pulled out a small velvet box and opened it. Inside lay a necklace—a silver chain holding a teardrop-shaped Ruby. It wasn't magical. It gave no stats. But it was red, like fire. Like Maxine.
Max stared at the pendant for a while, admiring its intricate designs.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" Vulture croaked. "Heard it was found in a vampire's lair south of San Diego."
Max walked forward. "I have the 450 credits we agreed on," he said, placing his chip on the counter.
Vulture didn't move to take it. He just smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "Ah, about that. The price went up. It's 550 credits now."
"What?!" Max's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "But we agreed on 450 just yesterday."
"Yesterday was yesterday," Vulture shrugged. "And it's not the first time prices go up overnight. You have inflation to blame for that."
Max gritted his teeth in frustration, rage seeping through. "We had a deal, old man. I've been working overtime for weeks to hit the number of credits we agreed on," he bellowed. "You're just being cruel and greedy."
Vulture shrugged, unmoved. "The world is cruel, Maxwell. You know that better than anyone. Pay the new price or leave it," he grinned. "I even heard a Hunter from Sector 4 is eyeing the necklace. Might sell it to him."
Max felt the heat rise in his chest—that familiar, burning anger that had lived in him for a year. He wanted to reach over the counter and smash the old man's face.
But he couldn't. He was a Nobody. If he caused a scene, he'd be kicked out and only cause more problems for himself.
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. "I don't have 550 right now," he said
"I know," Vulture chuckled. "But I know who your friend is. The Fire Princess, right? Tell you what. Give me the 450, and you owe me another 200 with interest. What'd you think?"
Max's blood boiled. This was theft. Pure, indirect theft.
But yet again, he didn't have a choice.
In the old world, a necklace like this would have been a Saturday afternoon whim. Now, it was a king's ransom.
Max stared at the red stone, contemplating Vulture's offer. It was Maxine's birthday. If he didn't get it for her today, everything he'd worked so hard for would be for nothing.
"Fine," he finally agreed. He transferred every credit he had—an amount worth his food money for the next two weeks—and grabbed the box. He didn't say thank you. He just turned and walked out into the cooling evening air.
He clutched the box tight, the velvet soft against his rough palm. It was worth it. For her, it was always worth it.
Max walked through the shelter, towards the residential area, crossing the invisible line that separated the "Chaff" from the "Wheat." He left the muddy rows of tents where families huddled under tarps, stopping by the checkpoint manned by armed guards.
"ID," the guard grunted, looking Max up and down with disdain.
"Recon Unit. Max Caldwell," Max said, flashing his wrist-comp.
The guard scoffed. "Oh, right. The princess's pet," he laughed. "Go ahead, you little runt."
Max ignored the jibe. He was used to it. Leech. Burden. Mascot. He'd heard them all. Majority of the people here despised him simply because he was Maxine's 'Friend'. They hated the fact that a weakling like him was close to someone as beautiful and powerful as Maxine. But in reality, they were all just jealous.
Max kept his head down and walked into the Upper Rings.
The instant transition was jarring.
The tents and mud gave way to paved paths and actual buildings. Here, the lights actually worked. And there was green grass, watered by expensive filtration systems.
This was where the VIPs lived. The generals, the directors, and the two Awakened who kept the shelter from being wiped off the map.
Max stopped in front of the largest house on the block. It was a beautiful, two-story colonial with white pillars and a wide porch, adorned with hanging flower baskets that felt like some hallucination from a past life.
He looked down at his filthy, grease-stained trousers and his tattered boots. He brushed off the worst of the dust on his shirt, trying to look somewhat presentable. But it was futile, he looked like a ghost haunting a palace.
Taking a deep breath to steady the tremor in his hands, Max stepped onto the porch and reached for the polished brass knocker. He was the most powerless man in the shelter, standing at the door of its most powerful weapon. But to him, she was just Maxine. And today, he just wanted her to feel like she was still human.