In the bleak, backwater communities built up around waystations in the early years of the EMP, whispers begin to stir. Soft, uncertain, barely formed thoughts. They say he moves like smoke and strikes like a flame. A blade’s glint in the dark, a flash of copper hair, and then the corrupt are left clutching empty purses while the hungry find food on their doorsteps.

​

No one knows his name, only what he stands for. The gangs put a price on his head. The ones barely surviving call him a ghost, a mythical Robin Hood. But the truth is more complicated. Klytie Smoot isn’t a man. And she’s never asked to be a savior. She’s only tired of watching good people crushed beneath the weight of greed.

​

Armed with nothing but her wits, her trusty tomahawk, and a vengeance for the ones she’s lost, she strikes at night. Her calling card: a single feather, carved deep and clean.

​

They call her the Rusty Robin now; born from ruin, red as rebellion. And as her legend grows, so does the fear in the hearts of those who built their fortunes on the backs of the broken.

Justice, it seems, wears red.