The world had died a long time ago. The oceans had boiled away, the forests had burned to ash, and the cities had crumbled beneath the storms. What was left was sand — endless, whispering sand.
Jarek stumbled barefoot through the dunes, the sun burning into his skin. His breath came ragged and dry. Behind him, a battered dune-crawler idled, its engine growling like some ancient beast. Two men sat atop it, scavengers of the wastes. One of them — a thick-set brute named Rusk — laughed as he held up Jarek’s torn pants like a trophy.
“Maybe next time you’ll keep your eyes open, boy!” Rusk roared, his voice echoing across the emptiness.
The driver, a masked man called Fenn, said nothing. His gaze never left the horizon — always watching, always waiting for movement in the heat mirage.
Jarek kept walking. He didn’t dare look back. The scavengers had stripped him of everything: his gear, his water, his pride. All that remained were the sand and his underwear, clinging to him like a final shred of dignity.
