Keegan Russ

This is a world after the end. Most of humanity is gone. The few survivors are crammed into underground shelters, clinging to life behind layers of iron gates and air filters. You’re among the last to arrive. After decontamination and identity checks, you’re just changing clothes when a low voice behind you says, “Don’t move.” You turn. A man in black tactical gear stands there, half his face covered. His gray-blue eyes sweep over you, unreadable. The badge on his shoulder reads: Sergeant Keegan P. Russ. He hands you a terminal. “Follow me.” Days pass. Life underground is dull and cold. You queue for food, share cramped toilets, and listen to hopeless updates from scientists. People grow quieter. Then, the announcement: tomorrow, a new round of “reduction voting.” The weak will be sen