1. Chapter one #2
She smirks, unbothered. “Please. Like there’s such a thing as enough.”
I scoff. Can’t say I share the sentiment. She knows I don’t care for sex. Sure, I’ve fucked. I’ve taken up a few offers over the years. Noura included, back before she got her shiny red cloak and her seat with the Nine. Back before she decided tormenting me was her new favorite pastime.
The getting off part? Fine. Good, even. But I can do that with my own right hand, no strings, no mess, no games. When I told her that, she took it personally. Like rejection from me was worse than death.
We hit the docks, the first early workers already shuffling about. They see me, and every single one of them stiffens. Wide eyes, steps back, like my shadow alone might bite them. A couple even bow their heads, quick and nervous.
“Gods,” Tass mutters under her breath. “Idiots. The almighty Max is back. Fucking cowards. You’d think they’d remember you’re not untouchable. You rot in prison same as anyone else. Break the law, you’re a convict. And convicts get thrown into the Pit. You’re an ordinary criminal.”
“I’m not a criminal.” My lips curl into a grin. “And I’m anything but ordinary. I’m a damn legend.”
She snorts. “Go fuck yourself. You killed someone, and that’s why they threw you in.”
I raise a brow, slowing just enough to catch her gaze. “You do believe me when I say that woman turned right before my eyes, don’t you?”
We’d been on night watch when we heard the screams from a nearby home, standing on the wall that circles the city. A wall cobbled together between ruins, high enough to keep the Walkers from climbing in—most of the time.
Tass sighs, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Of course I do. But Noura was damn quick to believe the family’s story.”
“Nothing new there. She wants to see me dead.”
“She forgets people eat it up,” Tass says, giving me a sideways glance.
“They love you in the Pit. They fucking worship the ground you walk on. You’re blood and spectacle all rolled into one, Max.
You give them something to scream about, something to cling to.
Makes their shitty little lives feel less empty. ”
I grunt. She’s not wrong. Noura might call me a criminal, an abomination, but the people? They cheer my name. They’d rather watch me gut Walkers than face the truth of their own meaningless routines, thanking the Gods once more that it’s not their puny asses down in the Pit.
As we round the last corner, the rest of the docks stretch out in front of us, wood and concrete jutting into the sea. A big-ass boat has just docked, ropes still taut, the hull groaning against the tide.
One of our colleagues—the poor bastard stuck running point today—spots us and waves us over, relief written all over his face. “Thank the gods,” he mutters when we get close, eyes flicking straight to me. He’s practically beaming, like I’m his savior.
Figures.
Behind him, a line of filthy, hollow-eyed newcomers is already forming, shuffling toward the checkpoint office where they’ll be tagged, signed in, and filed into their new lives. Some look dazed, others desperate. All of them stink of salt, sweat, and fear.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says, lowering his voice. “Walkers tried to climb on during the crossing. They managed to clear the deck, but they had to seal off the lower hold. We think one’s still trapped down there.”
Tass’s head swivels toward me instantly, her lips twitching, green eyes sparkling like she already knows how this is going to play out.
“Max,” the man adds quickly, hopeful, “since you’re… well, you. We could use you to do a sweep.”
Of course. I get the honor of crawling into a rat-infested ship’s belly with a half-rotten fucker waiting to gnaw on my bones. But I’m the only one Immune. Lucky me.
I drop down the narrow steps into the hold, air thick with salt, piss, and old blood. The light’s fucking shit down here. Perfect place for something rotten to hide.
I draw my cleaver from my back, my hurt fingers protesting. Whisper’s too long for these tight quarters. The cleaver, though? Short, brutal, built for splitting bone up close. My kind of work.
The first filthy compartment’s packed with stragglers and the smell is horrible, rotten.
Thin, filthy bodies huddled in corners, eyes wide and darting.
Survivors. Barely. I scan them fast, grab a couple by the arms, check their necks, wrists, the soft flesh where bites show first. A scratch, a bruise, I can overlook. A bite? That’s a death sentence.
“Up,” I bark, jerking my chin at the stairs. They stumble past me, tripping over themselves to escape, relief spilling off them like sweat.
The second room’s empty, but the third is worse.
A corpse of a man is slumped in the corner, jaw hanging loose, torso a mangled ruin.
Half-eaten. Blood smeared across the walls, thick and black in the dim light.
My boots stick when I step too close. No movement.
No twitch of it coming back alive. It’s just meat.
I press forward into the last compartment, grip tightening around the cleaver’s handle until it stings. The stink hits first… sweet, rotting, familiar. Then the sound. A low rasp. Wet and hungry.
There he is. A Walker. What’s left of a man.
It jerks to its feet when it catches the scent of me.
Its clothes hang in greasy tatters, soaked dark with fluids that haven’t been human for a long time.
Skin peels in strips from its jaw, teeth bared through ragged gaps, and one ear dangles loose by a thread of flesh.
It’s disgusting.
The way it moves, those sharp, twitching jerks, are always the same. But I know better than to blink; Walkers can be quick, quicker than you’d ever expect, and the only way to live is to stay sharp.
So I bend my knees, grip tightening, and let it fucking come. There’s always that breathless split second, the space between hunger and impact, where the world narrows down to me and the monster.
I fucking savor it. Welcome it.
And like expected, it lunges.
One swing. Fast, clean. Cleaver cracks through skull and spine, and the head hits the floor with a wet thud.
Silence.
I let out a slow breath and grin to myself. Easy enough.
That’s when I hear it.
Not the wet rasp of a Walker. Not the groan of the ship settling. No, something softer. A whimper.
I pivot, the cleaver still dripping, and follow the sound to the far corner. Behind a stack of crates, where the shadows are thick. I step closer, slow, boots grinding through dried blood. Then I see him.
Cowering. Trying to make himself small, pressed back like the hull might open up and swallow him whole.
I reach in and haul him out by the throat before he can scramble further.
He’s light in my grip, but not weak. His arms tense, hands grab at my wrist. His muscles strain under a ratty old T-shirt that’s seen better decades.
Golden-brown hair, filthy and matted, but catching the dim light like it belongs to something brighter.
Flip-flops, patched with tape, slap against the boards when I drag him forward.
At first glance I think he’s small for a man. Fragile. Breakable. But he’s not. Just shorter than me. Lean. Built for running, not blunt force.
And then his eyes hit me.
Blue. So fucking blue it knocks the air out of me for a second. Deep and endless. The kind of blue I’ve only ever seen in old videos and pictures, the kind that used to belong to oceans before the rain painted them pink.
Hollow now, sure. Ringed with fear and hunger. But still that color.
I tighten my grip just a little, just enough to feel his pulse hammering, and tilt my head as I study him.
Pretty. Too pretty for this rotting world.
The boy flinches, eyes darting everywhere but me, like maybe there’s a way out. There isn’t. Not anymore.
I lean in, close enough that he feels the weight of me, the press of my body against his trapped frame. The cleaver still drips Walker blood onto the boards between us, each drop a slow reminder of what I just did… and what I could do to him.
His fear cuts the air, sharp and electric. Bitter, addictive.
His breath stutters when I bring my face near his, heat from his gasp ghosting my lips. His pulse hammers against my palm, frantic and alive under my fingers. Those lips part, full and unsteady, and those ocean-blue eyes widen—wide enough to drown in.
I fucking smirk and let out a dark chuckle. “Well… Hello there, pretty.”