The wasteland stretched endlessly beneath a perpetually overcast sky. Dust swirled through the desolate landscape, where rusted vehicles and crumbling buildings stood as ghostly reminders of a bygone era.

Amidst this devastation, Rex, a solitary bounty hunter, trekked through the barren land. His silhouette cut a stark figure against the backdrop of the destruction.

Rex’s camp was a small haven amidst the chaos. Constructed from scavenged materials, it consisted of a makeshift shelter, a carefully stacked supply pile, and a flickering fire casting long, dancing shadows.

The fire’s warm glow contrasted with the cold desolation outside. Sitting by the fire, Rex meticulously sharpened his combat knife.

Each stroke of the whetstone was rhythmic, providing a brief escape from his weighty thoughts. In his hand was a crumpled photograph—a weathered image depicting a vibrant landscape, a smiling woman, and a child at play.

It was a relic from a time before the apocalypse, a fragment of a life he could barely remember. Every night, as he gazed at the photograph, he was haunted by the question: What had happened to that world?His dreams were plagued by fleeting memories—snippets of laughter, warmth, and a sense of belonging that seemed just out of reach.

These fragmented visions only deepened his resolve to uncover the truth. The photograph was his only link to a past he had lost, a beacon of hope and a symbol of the life he once knew and the world he longed to restore.

. .