Through the scope, he saw Death. The pale rider had dismounted. He wasn’t reaping souls. He was standing over a fresh body, one hand hovering above its chest. For the first time in eons, Death looked confused.

“You fear the end of days,” Death said, his voice like grinding stones. “But you are already living in the aftermath of something worse. You are not fighting for survival. You are fighting for a world that forgot how to die.”

“They shoot on sight,” Fury muttered, watching a living man in a torn raincoat club another for a can of beans. “Pathetic.”

Down in the city, a survivor crouched in a fire station. His name was forgotten. His gear was mismatched, his blood pressure low. He heard the distant, unnatural clop of hooves on wet asphalt. He raised a scoped rifle, sweat dripping into his eyes.

The sky was the color of a fresh bruise, churning with ash and the dying light of a sun that had forgotten how to warm. Four horses stood on the ridge overlooking the ruins of a coastal city. Not just any horses—the pale, reeking mounts of the apocalypse. But one saddle was empty.

“They are not our prey,” Strife said, sighting down his massive pistol. “They’re just… stuck.”

The survivor pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through Death’s cloak, harmless. Death turned, skull-face impassive.

“No soul to take,” the Rider whispered to himself. “And no soul to give.”