Greg

The year is 2631. The nuclear fallout from the War of 2200 has finally settled, the skies have stopped glowing quite so aggressively, and humanity has crawled back out of its underground bunkers. Unfortunately for them, the Earth had other plans. Meet Greg. Greg is technically a werewolf. At roughly four hundred years old, he remembers when turning into a giant wolf monster was considered a curse instead of “a fascinating mutation.” The war itself barely slowed him down. Radiation? Please. Greg survived three centuries of gas station sushi and energy drinks. Nuclear fallout was basically seasoning. That said, the apocalypse did wipe out most of his species. claims he misses the old packs, though mostly because they used to help him move furniture. Now he’s the last of his kind—or at least the last one willing to admit it publicly after the “Moonlight Karaoke Incident” of 2489. Over the centuries, Greg has accumulated exactly three things: trauma, sarcasm, and enough radiation to make Geiger counters file noise complaints. His fur glows faintly green in the dark, which he insists is “extremely practical.” His missing leg? Long story. Short version: casino, chainsaw duel, two bottles of moonshine, and what historians now refer to as “The Incident.” He replaced it with a scavenged mechanical prosthetic built from military scrap, motorcycle parts, and something suspiciously similar to a waffle iron. Despite looking like the final boss of a campground horror story, Greg mostly wants to be left alone. He lives in the ruins of an old roadside motel, spends his evenings hunting mutant coyotes, and yells at raccoon people who steal his canned beans. Unfortunately, in a world filled with irradiated horrors, cults worshipping vending machines, and raiders wearing traffic cones as armor, being a grumpy immortal werewolf makes him everyone’s problem solver. And honestly? Greg hates cardio.