It was cold.
So cold he thought he might actually freeze to death.
Albert slowly pried his eyes open. He was lying on the ground beneath a vast, washed-out gray sky. His whole body ached. His mind felt like sludge.
Then he registered something tugging at him.
He blinked down—and saw a middle-aged stranger trying to yank off the last scrap of clothing he had left: a thin, worn-out T-shirt.
…Excuse me?
Where the hell was he?
The last thing he remembered was lying on an operating table back in a hospital. The doctor had leaned over him, patted his shoulder, and told him gently, "Good luck."
Apparently, luck had ditched him halfway.
The surgery must have failed.
"What are you doing?" Albert croaked, his voice sandpaper-rough.
The man yelped like he'd seen a ghost. "Holy crap! The corpse can talk!"
He fell backward on his butt, panting, wide-eyed. After a few seconds, he crawled closer again, still wary.
"You're alive?" he muttered in disbelief, shrugging on the down jacket he had just stripped off Albert with absolutely zero shame. "Brother, you must have nine lives. Most of the 'Drifters' we've been finding on the road? Dead as doornails."
Drifters.
That was what they called ordinary people like them—those who never awakened any supernatural abilities in this post-apocalyptic world.
By chance or bad luck, Albert had stumbled right into a group of about a dozen Drifters the moment he arrived in this body.
He took a quiet breath and scanned his surroundings. "Hn." With effort, he pushed himself up off the cold ground.
In a sense, the original owner of this body really had died. Otherwise, Albert's wandering soul wouldn't have found a brand new home in a completely different world.
Judging by the biting wind, it was winter. The air was wet and cruel, the cold sliding under the skin like knives. A sudden temperature crash had wiped out many Drifters in this desolate city—people who had nothing to protect themselves with.
This group was scavenging for anything useful—tools, food, warm clothes—off corpses along the way.
Which was how they found Albert.
The middle-aged man gave him a once-over. Even though Albert was obviously starving, he still stood tall, shoulders broad, features sharp—handsome in a way that made people do a double-take. Even half-dead, he carried himself with a kind of quiet authority.
Trying for a friendly—borderline coaxing—tone, the man said, "Listen, our group's heading to a sweet spot soon. Warm shelter, steady food. Yeah, it's guarded pretty tightly, but if we manage to pull it off? We'll eat like kings for a whole month. What do you say? Wanna help us out?"
…It sounded way too much like someone trying to rope him into a robbery.
Albert stared at him, expression unreadable.
Sure. I totally believe your too-good-to-be-true paradise plan.
He raised an eyebrow.
But as Albert looked around, it became obvious—he didn't have much of a choice.
In this dangerous, unfamiliar world, he was nobody. No memories of this place, no weapons, not even proper clothing—the man in front of him had literally stripped him the moment he woke up. Staying behind alone would only mean freezing to death.
Following this ragtag group was the only move he had left.
Albert pretended to think it over, then gave a small nod. "Alright."
The middle-aged man didn't bother giving the jacket back.
Albert's brow tightened, but he said nothing. He pulled a thin, torn coat from the stiff body of a corpse by the roadside and wrapped it tightly around himself. It did barely anything against the cold. Still shivering, he trailed at the back of the group.
Night crept in.
Albert pushed aside a wall of person-high weeds and peered through the gaps between the leaves.
Less than fifty meters ahead, a cluster of tents formed a makeshift camp. A bonfire crackled silently in the darkness, throwing warm light across the ground. The smell hit them immediately—rich, savory, unmistakably roasted meat. The entire group swallowed in unison.
"I haven't tasted roasted meat since the apocalypse started," the middle-aged man muttered beside him, one hand pressed to his loudly growling stomach.
His gaze locked onto the distant fire, full of envy, bitterness, and bone-deep longing. "Damn mutants. Eating well, drinking well… chewing on meat every damn day. Why couldn't I be blessed like that?"
"Seriously! If we had powers too, we wouldn't be starving out here," several others whispered heatedly.
When the apocalypse hit, the meteor shower had carried something far worse than fire and debris—an extraterrestrial genetic virus that tore apart the world's biological balance. In just days, nature spun into overdrive: food spoiled instantly, bacteria spread like wildfire, species mutated in hyper-speed cycles, and genes shifted in ways no one could predict.
A fraction of humanity changed too. The most common mutation mimicked beasts—some called it regression, others evolution. Either way, in the worsening climate, being born a mutant—with a thick coat of fur to stay warm and the strength to hunt—was nothing short of divine luck.
Albert didn't comment. He simply breathed into his numb hands, watching the thin trail of white vapor disappear as soon as it formed.
The middle-aged man nudged him. "Listen, kid. Later, you and ROUGE take the front. ROUGE will draw the guards away, and the rest of us will sneak in from the back. Once you see our signal, pull out immediately—got it?"
After traveling with them long enough, Albert had figured out the whole picture: this group planned to slip into the mutants' camp under the cover of night and steal whatever food they could from the storage tent.
It was… a plan.
Not a good one.
In fact, it was barely a plan at all.
As Albert listened, unease settled in his gut. Halfway through the walk, he tried drifting off to the side, hoping to slip away quietly. But the others were clearly expecting that—every time he veered even a couple of steps off the path, someone immediately yanked him back into line.
He realized then that he was stuck.
Completely, undeniably stuck on this sinking pirate ship.
With no way out, he had no choice but to follow the plan. His mind elsewhere, he trailed after ROUGE while the rest of the group crept around to the back of the camp, ready to make their move.
The guards at the gate spotted them and quickly raised their weapons.
"Who are you people?"
ROUGE immediately put on his best ingratiating smile. "Evening, sirs! I—I'm a drifter from nearby. No harm meant, honest! It's just… I haven't eaten in days, and I was wondering if you might—"
"Nothing. Now piss off," a guard snapped, cutting him off.
ROUGE's smile froze. He paused, then continued doggedly, "Sir, I'm not asking for much. Just a bite. Even leftovers. Even bones. My whole family's dead. I'm out here alone—I can't survive like this…"
He even managed to squeeze out a few pathetic, fake tears.
The two guards exchanged a doubtful look, saying nothing for several long seconds. Then one of them suddenly turned to Albert with narrowed eyes.
"This kid says his whole family's dead. So who the hell are you?"
Albert had thought he was only here as background decoration—he hadn't expected to get roped into the act. He hesitated.
"Uh… I just met him on the road—"
and figured I might mooch a meal too…
Before he could finish the sentence, a loud clatter erupted from the back of the camp.
"Who's there?!"
"Damn it—drifters! Someone's stealing supplies!"
Everyone at the entrance jerked in alarm.
The guards instantly realized the two before them must be accomplices. They lunged forward.
"Don't move!"
Albert: "…"
Just my damn luck.
He spun to run, but ROUGE moved faster. Without hesitation, he shoved Albert hard—shoved him straight into the guards' arms—before sprinting off like a rabbit freed from a trap.
Albert stumbled forward, speechless.
You little—… unbelievable.
That bastard. If I ever see him again, I swear—