Riven

They called it a miracle. The cure to overpopulation, imbalance, war. A virus engineered to fix everything.

They named it E.V.E. — a clinical acronym for a biological time bomb: Estrogenic Virus Eradication. It was supposed to sterilize gently, slow birth rates across the globe. But it mutated. And when it did, it didn’t just sterilize—it destroyed.

The virus tore through the female population like wildfire. Over 99% of women died in the first six months. And with them… the world died too.

Nations fell. Borders collapsed. The birth rate dropped to zero. The only hope left for mankind lay in the few women who survived—hidden, hunted, and hoarded like relics of a dying species.

Now, the world belongs to three kinds of men.

✦ The Gilded Order: The self-declared kings of the new world. Rich, powerful, and twisted by desire, they see women as collectibles—objects to be caged, pampered, and bred. Their cities are glittering prisons, their women drugged and dressed like dolls. The outside may look like luxury, but inside? It’s suffocating.

✦ The Reapers: Fanatics who believe the world should end. To them, women’s extinction was divine punishment. They burn everything in their path—settlements, resources, lives—and they kill any woman they find, determined to let the Earth rot with them.

✦ And then there’s the Scourge. They don’t work for power or pleasure. They move in shadows, trained in silence, acting like ghosts.

They track. They hunt. They secure.

Their mission is simple: protect the future. And to do that, they must find women… and never let them go. Some call them saviors. Others call them monsters in disguise. But one thing is always true:

Once they find you… you don’t get away.

You were supposed to stay hidden. That was the whole plan.

Your shelter was buried under the ruins of a pre-virus city, sealed, locked, and far off any known grid. Your mother gave everything to keep you invisible. You lived off scraps, filtered water, and silence. The world above was a warzone you had never seen with your own eyes.

But you got hungry.

Too hungry.

You’d run out of food two days before. You told yourself you’d go up just for an hour. One hunt. One kill. Back in. But fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because he was there. Hunting a woman.

And you were the only one in the damn area.

You remember it perfectly. The moment you saw each other.

You froze. Your heart leapt into your throat.

A man.

He was standing in the distance, clad in matte-black gear, crimson eyes gleaming beneath windswept bangs. His body screamed danger—tall, lithe, muscular, wrapped in black tactical straps and armor. Tattoos traced his arms like wicked ink vines. His chained dual-blade weapon hung at his side like a predator coiled and waiting.

He looked like a demon. No. Worse.

He looked thrilled.

“A woman…” he whispered, his expression lighting up with something far too wild to be relief. “Damn. Talk about luck. And she’s so pretty too~”

Then he grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

And just like that—you ran.

You didn’t think. You just moved. But he chased, fast and skilled like a panther on your trail. You didn’t stand a chance.

You collided in an abandoned street, and the fight began. He didn’t draw blood—he didn’t even try. He kept dodging, parrying, grinning, teasing.

Like this was fun. Like you were entertainment.

The sky was painted with streaks of dusk as your blades clashed again. Metal rang through the air like a war cry. Sparks flew from each strike, flashes of silver and blood-red clashing violently.

You didn’t know how long you’d been at it. Ten minutes? Thirty? More?

All you knew was—you were tired. Breathless. Your legs ached. Your daggers were slick in your palms, wrists burning with the strain.

The twin blades were sleek, slightly curved, forged for speed over brute strength. Black metal with a faint silver sheen at the edge, built to cut clean and fast. Balanced just right for close combat—you didn’t slash wildly. You struck with precision. And you never missed twice.

You adjusted your grip, breath heaving, arms aching—you weren’t backing down.

But he—he didn’t even look tired.

That bastard.

He stood tall, unfazed, with his chained dual-blades coiled lazily in one gloved hand—sharp, wicked things made of black steel, gleaming with a deadly curve on each end. The chain flexed like a living thing, ready to strike. His outfit looked half tactical, half provocative—black combat gear that barely covered his torso. A cropped vest clung tight to his chest, but the entire front of his torso was bare, revealing toned abs carved like stone and crisscrossed with inked tattoos: abstract sketches of faces, hands, and haunting symbols—like madness etched directly into his skin.

It wasn’t armor. It was a statement.

His bare chest, his exposed skin—it was a taunt. A challenge. As if to say: go ahead and try. He didn’t need protection. His skill was enough.

That was how the Scourge moved—bold, efficient, arrogant. Warriors trained to never need full gear because their enemies never lasted long enough to touch them.

Black tactical pants hugged his waist low, strapped with two belts, each buckle tilted from movement. A harness ran diagonally over one shoulder, connected to backup blades on his back. And his eyes—God, his eyes—glowed faintly red beneath messy black bangs, piercing and inescapable. They never left you. Not once.

His grin hadn’t wavered the entire time. It stayed sharp. Amused. Unsettling.

Like he was enjoying this. Like you were the game.

You snarled and lunged again. He blocked it with a fluid motion, his blades catching yours mid-air. He didn’t even swing with the intent to cut you—just to stop you, redirect, tease. Again and again. Every time you got close, he evaded or lightly struck—not to kill… but to tame.

“I swear,” he said casually, that cocky grin still carved into his lips, “I don’t wanna hurt you. You’re way too precious for that. And I like you to be honest.”

You scoffed, laughing bitterly without looking at him. The nerve. He’d been saying this nonstop for the past half hour. You didn’t even waste your saliva to reply anymore.

He spun his chain weapon around one arm like a toy, sighing as he shook his head. “You’re really stubborn, huh?”

He scratched the back of his head in a way that felt so annoyingly casual, like you weren’t dancing between life and death, like he wasn’t here to steal you.

Then his eyes changed.

In an instant.

That playful glow dulled into something cold. Heavy. Intense. Like flipping a switch in a psychopath’s brain. You flinched. You took a step back on instinct—your body sensing something ancient in that stare.

He was done playing.

And the killing intent poured off him like smoke.

He moved—faster than you could blink—and your blades clashed again, harder this time. Your arms trembled under the force, teeth gritting as your faces nearly collided.

Just an inch apart. You could feel his breath. Smell the blood on him. His voice dropped lower.

“You really think I’m gonna let you slip through my fingers? I’ve been trained to secure you—but now that I’ve seen you?” “…I’d rather break your legs than let you leave.”

Your breath hitched.

Something inside you snapped. You rammed your forehead into his skull.

CRACK.

He stumbled with a grunt—his nose bleeding from the impact.

And you didn’t wait.

With all your strength, you pushed him off and sliced at him. Your blade grazed his cheek, leaving a crimson line across his flawless face.

He growled low in his throat, half annoyed, half… impressed. Then he laughed. Laughed, like this was a flirtation.

“You little viper,” *he muttered, amused.+

Before he could recover, you jammed your boot into the ground and kicked sand in his face. He cursed, flinching back with one eye shut—and you ran. Ran as if death itself was snapping at your heels.

Your lungs burned, throat dry and raw. The wind whipped past you. Every step was pain, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

This guy… this psycho… he wasn’t normal. He started the fight with goofy grins and sweet words. But you saw it—what he became. That glint in his eye.

Like two people were fighting you at once.

And just as you turned a corner in the ruins, you heard it. Footsteps. Fast, steady, getting closer.

His voice followed—light, amused, almost singing.

“C’mon now, Rabbit. Don’t make me ruin your pretty little ankles.”

You turned in panic.

There he was, nose bleeding, eyes glowing, smiling like a demon.

He raised his hand.

Whip—CLANG.

The chain snapped toward you with terrifying precision.

You gasped.

It wrapped around your ankles.

You didn’t even scream—you just choked as the ground vanished beneath you and your body slammed into the pavement. Your breath fled your lungs in a single painful burst.

You thrashed, desperate, but it was too late.

He pounced. Heavy. Warm. Unyielding.

His weight crashed down on your back, pinning you like prey beneath a lion’s paw. His breath was hot against your ear. You could feel his heart pounding against your back.

And his voice—

“Finally caught you, Rabbit.”

It was soft. Almost loving. But behind it was madness.

The chain clicked once more, tightening around your legs like a collar, and you couldn’t move.