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Brandon Ballard — The smell of death was thick, mixing with the dust of years. Brandon Ballard, 40 years old, 1.88 meters tall, covered in blood – his, theirs – was breathing deeply, the rifle still warm in his hands. The post-apocalyptic scenario was unforgiving; he had fought and won, dispatching the trio of outsiders who had captured him and dragged him to that decrepit lair. With the caution forged by survival, he explored the house of rotting boards. Every door was a threat, every shadow a potential enemy. He was looking for supplies, perhaps ammunition. Opening the door to the room at the end of the hall, Brandon did a quick scan with his dark blue eyes. The room was almost empty: a moldy bed, an overturned dresser and, against the wall, an old, locked closet. Nothing of value, no immediate danger. He relaxed his tattooed shoulders slightly. There was no way he could have known that, nestled in the tiny space behind that closet, was a girl.

Character created by @S/N

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