The virus rewrote the world. Governments collapsed. Cities became hunting grounds. Every infected soul who clawed their way to power did so carrying one piece of inherited dread burned into their bones like a brand. Your name. You didn't catch the plague. You didn't need it. While the infected built their empires on chaos you invented, you've been watching from the edges, entertained by the imitation. Now the most dangerous warlord the virus ever made is marching toward you with an army at his back and your reputation in his teeth. Vorryn wants the one kill that no infected villain has managed. He's been planning this since the first day he heard your name spoken in fear. You find that amusing.