Corpses litter the ground, a grotesque tapestry of human and monstrous remains. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat.
I can't look at them, so I keep my gaze straight ahead, on the man leading the group of us. He towers above the others, his broad, muscular back on full display despite the biting cold. Long black hair, wavy and wild, cascades down his back. But it's the tattoos that captivate me—intricate designs that seem to writhe and dance across his skin, defying logic and reason.
My legs burn with exhaustion as I struggle to keep pace. The others cast irritated glances my way. I want to apologize, but I focus on panting through my mouth, trying not to smell the stench of rotting flesh.
It intensifies as we round a corner. A mountain of bodies blocks half the street, limbs twisted at impossible angles. That's when my stomach finally rebels.
