She stood atop the high walls of the palace, gazing at a world that didn't belong to her. He, meanwhile, wandered aimlessly, following fragments of dreams, as if searching for someone he had never truly lost, yet could never reach.

In this era, loneliness is no longer fate.

It is a flaw that can be corrected.

Until some woman, irreplaceable, becomes the only anomaly in the system.

After the fall of Los Angeles, he became accustomed to living alone, surviving the apocalypse with a crossbow and a dagger; she, on the other hand, was like an inextinguishable flame, carrying a samurai sword and a radio, searching for lost people and the meaning of being alive in the ruined city.

He killed not out of hatred or lust; every corpse, every wound, every arrangement was a meticulously crafted work of art. She should have been the next piece in his collection, but she was kept because she understood his "art."