The first light of dawn was a dirty smear filtering through the smoke-choked skyline of Ajmer. It painted the ruined city in a monochrome haze of red and grey, a world bled of colour. Ash, light as whispers, drifted from the skeletal husks of burned-out apartments. The charred spine of a collapsed flyover jutted like the broken teeth of some long-dead leviathan against the horizon.
Inside a dingy, stale-smelling room three floors up, Ajay stirred awake.
He blinked slowly, not from fatigue, but from a discipline etched into his very bones. His body was uninjured, his breathing a steady, rhythmic tide, yet he forced his limbs to move with a sluggishness that mimicked exhaustion. A predator learns to conserve energy even in the most still moments. He reached for the packet of rations scavenged the night before—half a stale protein bar, its edges already crusted white with age. The taste was bitter chalk, but he chewed anyway, his jaw working with methodical indifference.
On the floor before him, an old, water-stained notebook lay open. In its centre, he had scrawled a single number with a finger dipped in ash from his burnt-out candle:
9
Nine kills. Nine souls harvested in this broken world. One more, and the system would shed its tutorial skin. One more, and the true game would finally begin. That number wasn't a tally; it was a promise, a finish line drawn in the ashes of everything that was.
His dark eyes, devoid of warmth, shifted to the cracked window. Outside, Ajmer groaned awake with the sounds of its new inhabitants: the scuttling of scavengers, the groan of crumbling masonry, and the distant, guttural howls that were neither man nor beast.
His gaze swept the streets with a hunter's patience. The ruins of ancient temples stood gutted, their idols half-melted into grotesque parodies by a heat that had boiled stone. Market stalls lay overturned, strewn with bones gnawed down to ivory shards. Across a nearby wall, thick streaks of graffiti slashed in dried blood-red screamed a single, brutal message: Red Fang – Obey or Burn.
Ajay leaned back against the grimy wall, closing his eyes. His thoughts were quiet, deliberate, a stream of cold, logical reasoning.
A hunter should know the herd before joining it.
And so, when his sharp gaze caught movement below—a small group of survivors moving with cautious desperation through the street—Ajay's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. He rose, melting into the shadows with a soundless grace. Every step was measured, every breath drawn shallow, blending into the stale, pervasive stink of rot that clung to Ajmer's alleys like a shroud.
From the vantage of a half-collapsed balcony, Ajay studied them. Six in total, moving in a loose, uneven formation that betrayed their weakness. His mind catalogued them, assigning them values and probabilities.
The Protector: A woman in her late thirties, clothes ripped, shoulders hunched, but still bracing a small child against her chest. The boy clung to her neck, eyes wide and vacant, lips pale from dehydration. The woman's eyes were worse—hollow, as though she had stared too long into nightmares that refused to end—high emotional volatility. The child is a critical vulnerability.
The Sentinels: Two ex-military men, flanking the group with rifles held at a low ready. Scarred knuckles, efficient grips, scanning rooftops and alleys with discipline instead of panic. Competent. Dangerous. But the edges of their resolve frayed—boots dragging, shoulders too tight. Primary threat. Also, a primary resource.
The Burden Bearers: Two men bent double under swollen packs, sweat soaking their shirts. Loud breathing, every step a liability. Dead weight. They will die first when pressure is applied.
His lips barely moved, the whisper a ghost of air."The herd is weakest at its slowest. It bleeds where it limps."
The ruins around them became a brutal stage—shattered glass crunching underfoot, torn prayer flags fluttering like spectres, and the constant stink of decay wafting from storm drains.
And then came the growls.
At first, a low rumble threaded through the streets, like thunder crawling across stone. The Sentinels froze, rifles snapping up. The Protector clutched her child tighter, lips moving in a broken, silent mantra.
The first beast lunged from an alley.
It was no longer a dog—mange sloughed off in strips, flesh cracked and weeping black pus. Its jaws glowed faintly from within, teeth scorched and soot-stained. Another followed, then two more, movements coordinated with an intelligence that made Ajay's pupils narrow.
Then came the alpha.
Scarred shoulders taller than a woman's head hid a patchwork of burns and lesions. When it opened its jaws, a gout of embered breath spilt forth, lighting the air with the stench of burning rot. Its eyes glowed like coals.
Mutated. Intelligent. A trophy worth a fortune—if one survived long enough to skin it.
The pack struck as one.
The Burden Bearers were first to fall. One was dragged down in a spray of blood, throat torn out. The other swung his heavy pack like a club, staggering a beast back, but claws found his calf and yanked him down, screaming.
Gunfire erupted, deafening in the tight street. Bullets shattered bone, spraying gore, but the pack pressed forward. The Protector flinched as brains and blood painted her face. She didn't scream—just clutched her child tighter.
The alpha's roar was fire. One Sentinel ignited instantly, his screams cut short by jaws tearing him apart mid-flame. Entrails slithered across the cobbles. The other fought harder, stance collapsing into desperation as ammunition dwindled.
Ajay watched it all, his expression blank. He measured. He calculated.
Their line breaks under pressure. Ammunition drains too quickly. The child makes her reckless. The guard overcompensates. Fatigue accelerates decay.
When the alpha finally died, its eye carved out by a knife driven deep, silence fell heavy. Two of six were gone. Four staggered on, limping toward shelter.
Ajay didn't move. Not yet.
Inside the crumbling office building, desperation stank like blood. They collapsed amid broken desks and shattered glass. The Protector tore her own clothes to bind wounds. The child whimpered, thin and high.
The last Sentinel cursed under his breath. "Ammo wasted. Too much… too damn much."
The haulier's voice was a rasp. "We can't keep this up. Every fight takes more than it gives."
The Protector's whisper: "Then we find a way to stop fighting."
Hope. Fragile. Dangerous.
The Sentinel spat. "The Red Fangs. Say what you want, they have walls, food, and ammo. Better a dog at their heel than meat in the street."
The Protector shivered, clutching the boy. "They'll use us. They'll use him."
The words died under the sound.
A faint thump. A shuffle. Deeper in the building.
The Sentinel's rifle snapped up, jaw clenched, footsteps echoing like gunfire in the hollow hall. The haulier limped behind. The Protector held her child, every muscle rigid.
They reached a utility closet. The thin metal door trembled.
With a grunt, the Sentinel yanked it open.
Ajay was crouched inside. Curled tight, body trembling, eyes wide with manufactured terror. Dirt streaked his face, shirt torn, voice breaking perfectly:"I-I didn't fight. I just hid… please, don't hurt me."
The Protector's expression softened instantly. "Another soul," she murmured, pity bleeding into her voice.
The haulier scoffed. "Dead weight. But harmless."
The Sentinel studied him long and hard, then lowered his rifle with a grunt. "Closet rat. No threat."
Ajay nodded rapidly, clutching his knees. "I just… stayed in my apartment. Then the things… I was in the closet. Please, let me stay. Just one night."
The Protector laid a hand on the Sentinel's arm. "We can't throw him out. Not like this."
Reluctantly, they let him follow. He curled in the darkest corner of their camp, feigning sleep, breaths soft and shallow.
But behind closed eyelids, his thoughts sharpened to razors.
They think me weak. Good. A wolf must wear sheepskin to get close to the flock.
In the dark, unseen, a smile ghosted across his lips.
When the herd bleeds again… he would be there. To watch. To listen. To decide whether they were worth saving—or worth sacrificing.