There was no sunlight, no fresh air to breathe, and seemingly no people anywhere. If there were any people at all, they were hiding in their homes, hiding from their own shadows. The government’s failings left currencies worthless and trust in ruins. Society was fractured, with individuals turning against each other, their families, and even themselves. The air itself was rotten: wearing oxygen masks was the sole means of survival.

A tall boy, with black hair and large gray eyes, walked down these dark streets, his gaze fixed on the rough and dead pavement. His oxygen tank was only half full. "That’s good enough for two hours," he murmured to himself.

The sound of a car’s horn echoed in the back, not too far from where he stood. He paid it little mind, assuming they were just making noise because they got lost in the darkness.

"I hope they don’t come and bother me, but if they do at least I’ll have a chance to snatch something from them," he thought. He was only sixteen years old, but he was forced to live them in a world that slowly destroyed any notion of family, law, or justice. To him, the world was there for him to do as he pleased.

The horn became louder with each passing moment. “Here they come,” he said to himself as he was getting ready. The car stopped, and a woman's voice called out to him.

"Please," she pleaded. "Help me! Good sir, please help us!"

He turned around and met the desperation on the poor woman's face. He smiled lightly, thinking how easy it would be to get the whole car from her.

"Thank God!" the woman exclaimed. "God bless you, dear. Could you please help me with my husband? He's back there with a severe, open wound."

"Do I look like a doctor to you?" he responded sharply.

"Well, no. But... I believe you can help," she replied softly, her voice weakened by her nearly depleted oxygen tank.

Observing her, he noted her beauty: dark-brown eyes and black hair. She looked at her husband, who was on the brink of death, oblivious to her own wounds. The boy couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.

"Okay, I'll help you. But you need to calm down, or you’ll run out of oxygen," he advised.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she said, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "God bless you, my dear..." She looked at him as if he were an angel. "What's your name?"

"Ellay," he replied, gently.

Behind the Golham residence, a 45-year-old redhead named Connor and his associates gathered in the neglected, desolate backyard, curiously unburdened by oxygen masks. The reason for their ability to breathe without assistance was as mysterious to them as the world to a newborn, but it allowed for their carefree habit of smoking.

"What's the plan for tonight?" asked Ryan, who was just a year younger than Connor, with black hair and brown eyes. Of average height and slightly overweight, Ryan served as Connor's right-hand man.

"Why do you ask? Are you getting bored of us?" Connor retorted, visibly irritated.

"Easy, Connor. It's not just me. Everyone's feeling the same way," Ryan trying to tread lightly, wary of Connor's temper.

"Is that so, everyone?" Connor questioned, looking around.

"Yes..." came a deep voice from beside Ryan. Kevin, the intellect of the group, was an intimidating figure. Tall, muscular, and bald, his appearance often misled others into believing he was perpetually enraged.