The Villain's Popular Apocalyptic Bride

The rusted iron bit into Julia Hernandez's wrists the second she tried to move.

A sharp, tearing pain shot up her arms. She gasped, her lungs expanding against the freezing air of the room. She jerked her body forward, driven by pure instinct, but her legs refused to yield. Heavy steel rings anchored her ankles to the concrete floor.

She was completely immobilized.

A blinding white light snapped on above her. The glare stabbed her retinas. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing turning into rapid, shallow pants.

The smell hit her next. It was a thick, suffocating mixture of raw sewage, copper blood, and rotting meat. Her stomach violently contracted. She leaned over as far as the chains allowed and dry-heaved, her throat burning with stomach acid.

"Warning. Host has entered the apocalyptic novel Wasteland Frenzy. Current timeline: Villain's execution phase."

The mechanical voice echoed directly inside her skull. Julia's eyes snapped open, watering from the harsh light and the sheer shock.

Before her brain could process the impossible words, the heavy blast door in front of her groaned. Metal scraped against metal.

The heavy thud of combat boots echoed down the corridor. The sound vibrated through the concrete floor and traveled straight up Julia's spine. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the rhythm frantic and erratic.

A tall figure stepped into the harsh light.

Byron Serrano wore an immaculate, custom-tailored black suit. Not a single speck of dust marred the fabric. His dark eyes locked onto hers, entirely devoid of human warmth. He looked at her the way one might look at a crushed insect on the sidewalk. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Behind him, a massive man with a scarred face dragged something across the floor. Spike Kowalski tossed the bleeding mass at Julia's feet.

It was a man. Ricky Dunn. His face was a swollen, unrecognizable mess of purple bruises and torn flesh.

Ricky scrambled forward, his bloody fingers leaving streaks on the concrete as he grabbed the hem of Byron's trousers. He sobbed, begging for his life.

Byron did not even look down. He simply raised his leg and kicked Ricky in the chest. The impact sent Ricky flying backward until his skull cracked against the concrete wall.

Spike pulled a Browning pistol from his waistband. The metallic click of the slide racking back was deafening in the small room. He pressed the muzzle directly against the back of Ricky's head.

Julia tried to scream. Her throat locked up. No sound came out except a pathetic, broken whimper. Her entire body shook so violently the chains rattled against the chair.

Byron slowly raised his right hand. He wore a pristine black leather glove. He made a slight, dismissive downward motion with his fingers. His dead eyes never left Julia's face.

The gunshot was a physical blow to the ears.

Ricky's head burst open. Hot, wet matter splashed across Julia's cheeks and forehead. The metallic smell of fresh blood instantly overpowered the room.