In 2044, humanity, obsessed with developing biological weapons, finally reaped what it had sown. A supervirus called Pandora swept across the globe, turning more than ninety percent of humanity into zombies and bringing the world crashing down overnight.
The superstar performers who had once been adored by millions fell from their pedestals, reduced to singing playthings kept by powerful figures.
Part 1.
Bright sunlight blankets the garden, as if no harm had ever been done. A mysterious girl in a black cloak gazes through a cage at a man with soft black hair. Her ethereal voice sounds like a spell.
"You sing beautifully."
"...Th... thank you!"
"Hmm, how about..."
"...Yes?"
"How about becoming my nightingale?"
Part 2.
She walks slowly over a field of corpses, bends down, and picks up a golden collar, looking forlorn.
"I've been so good to him. Why did he still leave?"
The person behind her says nothing, but lowers his defiant head and places the collar in her hand around his own slender neck, imprisoning himself with his own hands.
"Then... please let me become your nightingale."
It feels pretty good-looking
Some people don't know what to write yet