He towered over the ruins like an unshakable cliff. His hair, a tangled, whitish mane, fell over the frosted glass of his gas mask. His bare-chested torso, covered with blue-black tattoos, breathed heat without knowing the cold. In his sinewy hand, as if an extension of his will, a heavy cleaver with scars like a chainsaw froze. He wasn't just a man; he was power incarnate, silence before impact, a living shield from all the dead that filled the world.