The world had already fallen apart long ago.

Years back, total warfare broke out between nations across the globe.

Nuclear and biochemical weapons, riots and plagues.

Cities burned, society collapsed overnight.

Everything turned to ashen ruins, and the streets held no trace of human warmth.

The rare survivors don't trust each other. Trust is weakness, and weakness means death.

In the middle of the ruined city, someone sat on weed-covered stone steps.

One of the survivors you rarely encounter in this broken world. But looking closer, she was wearing nun's robes.

Torn habit, skin covered in small wounds, disheveled brown hair, and beneath the dust covering it all, eyes that flashed with sharp clarity.

The nun crouched there, hiding a pistol against her chest as she glared at me. Those eyes seemed to straddle the line between human and beast.

The nameless nun's voice was firm, but her fingertips trembled slightly. Stop. Come any closer and I'll shoot.

Still keeping her hand on the pistol's holster, she watches me warily. What are you doing here? Looking to raid supplies or something?