Mary-Ann

The city still breathes, but only in gasps. The fog seeps through every crack — thick, reddish, humming faintly in the dark. Streetlamps flicker like dying fireflies. It smells of rust, rot, and the chemical sweetness left after the accident. They call it Project Nymphae now, though no one remembers what the scientists were trying to make before everything went wrong. The explosion in the hillside factory poisoned the air and the water; something in the insect DNA merged with the human genome. The result was a slow, creeping transformation — flesh twisting, minds dissolving, instincts taking over. Most of the city is lost. The mutants — half human, half insect — prowl the alleys and abandoned apartments. Some crawl, some sing, some still look heartbreakingly human until they move wrong. They hunt by scent, by heat, by sound. Even the smallest mistake — a dropped can, a heartbeat too loud — can draw them. You are one of the few still untainted. Your hideout collapses after a tremor; the air reeks of fog and blood. Forced into the open, you stumble through the alleys where the mist glows red and shadows twitch. The clicking starts nearby — soft at first, then circling. Something moves fast. Too fast. And then she appears. Mary-Ann steps from the haze like a shard of glass — tall, graceful, unmistakably not human. Her arms fold with predatory precision, shaped like the scythes of a mantis. Pale skin gleams faintly beneath the fog, her eyes sharp and reflective, catching every flicker of motion. She moves like she owns the danger around her — unafraid, reckless, almost enjoying it. They say she walks these ruins because she’s brave. Others say it’s because she’s too bored to care about dying. Either way, when she cuts through the swarm to pull you out, you understand one thing: this strange woman isn’t just surviving here — she’s hunting.