The rain fell in relentless sheets, pounding the ruined city with merciless fury, turning the streets of Seattle into churning rivers of mud and swirling debris, a grim reminder that even the sky mourned the world's decay.
The Columbia Center, once a towering monument of modern ambition and architectural pride, now loomed like a dying colossus above the city's shattered skeleton—its glass windows shattered to jagged fangs, its steel frame rusted into a twisted cage of forgotten days, its interior swallowed by shadows and haunted silence, transformed into a labyrinth of lurking death and unseen threats. And it was here, within this crumbling monument of the old world, that their target—"Ghost," a 51-year-old Hunter whose legend had become myth—had sealed himself away for years, an unseen phantom surviving against all odds.
Captain Marcus Vega, his metal prosthetic arm glinting under the cold downpour, led his elite unit of fifty mercenaries through the chaos of the rain-drenched streets, their boots sloshing through knee-deep water as the flood embraced the city like a drowning shroud. These were not just men and women—they were battle-scarred survivors, molded by blood, forged in fire, and hardened by endless days of war against the infected and the merciless cruelty of scarcity. Vega raised his arm, his voice slicing through the storm with the precision of a blade as he brought them to a halt.
"Listen up. The man we're after isn't your average ghost story. Most people think he's long gone, vanished into the dust seven years ago. But those of us who've been around, who've survived long enough to grow old in this apocalypse, we know better. We know who 'Ghost' is. And we know he's not someone you take lightly. That man—he's survived from the very first day the world ended, and he's still surviving now."
Vega's gaze swept across the drenched, armored faces before him, fifty pairs of eyes filled with fire, fear, and quiet resolve.
"You see that tower?" he growled, pointing at the towering ruin of Columbia Center. "That's where some of you—maybe most of you—will die. Because waiting at the top of that hell is a Reaper. A real one. Maybe not in cloak and scythe, but in mind, soul, and kill count. And we're supposed to drag him out alive. Not dead. Alive."
He let out a slow, heavy sigh, the kind born of weariness and certainty.
"We are the Red Wolf Mercenaries. We don't back down. Not from the infected. Not from warlords. Not from ghosts. Once we accept a job, we see it through—blood, bone, or breath. And I swear to every one of you—once this is done, none of you will have to worry about starving again. No more nights wondering if your child is still alive, if your wife's body will ever be found, or if your father will vanish in some godforsaken zone with no trace left to mourn."
"This isn't just another run. This is the last mission of Red Wolf. So I ask you, one final time—are you with me?" Vega shouted, his voice cutting through the roar of the storm like a war drum, his tone meant not just to command, but to awaken the dying flame in their hearts.
"We have always believed in you, Marcus! No matter what happens today, we'll follow you—even in death!" the mercenaries roared, voices unified in defiance and desperation—though Vega's sharp eyes caught the hesitance in a few faces, the kind of doubt that lingers like a shadow behind courage.
He didn't give a damn.
Marcus Vega was a man carved from the remains of the old world and tempered in the merciless fires of the new. He didn't get this far by hesitating. He had survived because he was sharper, colder, and crueler when it mattered. Every choice he made had shaped the legend that was Red Wolf. And now, as the world crumbled around them, that name still carried weight.
This was the first time he'd gambled everything on a mission this suicidal. His second-in-command had fought him over it, raged and pleaded, until Vega had no choice but to cast him out. The man had power in Red Wolf, influence that could have torn their fragile unity apart. If Vega had let that opposition fester, the mission would've failed before it even began.
But Marcus Vega didn't waver.
He had made his choice.
Despite the risk, the reward this mission promised him was immense—unimaginably so. Those religious lunatics didn't go back on their word.
He didn't know what the man—who had remained inactive for seven long years—had done to make them throw themselves into the jaws of danger, exposing their veiled existence to the Hunters of the new world.
He looked at all the mercenaries one last time.
Still... it was such a pity. Most of them were going to die today. A real damn pity.
"Let's move. Today, we're gonna hunt the Ghost."
––
They entered the lobby, where once-polished marble floors were now drowned in grime, and what had been a grand entrance now loomed as a vast cavern of darkness and rot.
The air clung to the lungs like damp cobwebs—thick with mildew, and something far fouler. A stench that whispered of long-settled death and corruption, like decay sealed in the bones of the building itself. Flashlights cut trembling blades through the gloom, revealing the corpses of civilization—upturned chairs, shattered panes, bloodstains dried into shadows, and the lingering residue of forgotten chaos. The silence wasn't silent—it breathed, groaned, and pressed in on them, broken only by the distant drip of water and the skeletal groans of the dying structure.
"Split into teams," Vega ordered, voice steel and gravel. "Alpha and Bravo, take the east wing. Charlie and Delta, west. We rendezvous at the stairs."
The mercenaries moved like shadows, their footsteps echoing like the whispers of condemned souls. But just as they began to cross the lobby, the ground trembled—a low rumble, like the belly of the building had growled.
Then came the blast.....