The first thing people noticed about Zion wasn't his face, but the way he looked at the world—like it was a story only he had read to the end.
The city of Avalon rose like a whispered legend against the broken horizon. Towering walls carved from ancient stone and reinforced steel encircled the sanctuary, crowned with watchtowers that pierced the smoky skies. Inside, life clung stubbornly to normalcy — neon signs buzzed softly over market stalls, laughter spilled from crowded taverns, and music pulsed in underground clubs.
But beyond the walls, the world was a graveyard of forgotten empires. Cities lay swallowed by wild forests; skies shimmered with an unnatural light, and shadows moved with teeth and claws. Monsters roamed freely—some twisted remnants of humanity, others creatures born of nightmares.
Zion sat perched on a weathered balcony, cigarette balanced between slender fingers, the smoke rising like tendrils of a past he never shared. Beside him, a battered notebook lay open, its pages heavy with careful script—thoughts recorded, stories whispered, plans made in silence.
Every now and then, his eyes flicked toward the horizon beyond Avalon's walls — the wildlands where the monsters prowled and the unknown waited. His posture, taut and ready even in stillness, betrayed the discipline of a soldier who had learned to survive when death was a constant companion.
To the city's inhabitants, Zion was just another face in the restless crowd—tall enough to vanish, quiet enough to be ignored. But every motion he made betrayed a deadly grace, a mastery over his body honed by battles no one dared speak of. Even the simple flick of ash from his cigarette was a measured beat in the rhythm only he could hear.
No one knew where he had come from. No one asked. Those who dared to pry quickly learned silence was safer.
At twenty-four, Zion carried the weight of countless lives lived in shadows, the kind of man whose faint smile could promise salvation—or death.
A distant roar echoed beyond the walls—deep and primal, too monstrous for thunder. Zion didn't flinch. He closed his notebook, lit another cigarette, and gazed out at Avalon's flickering lights with a smile that knew the story's end before the first page was ever turned.