Before the bombs dropped, he was just that guy—the one who held the door at the pharmacy, the one who sat in the corner booth at the diner with a cup of cold coffee, the one folks greeted with a polite nod but couldn’t quite remember his name. In the tight-knit hollows and coal towns of West Virginia, he was known, if at all, as “SumGuy.” As in, “Who helped you fix the wiring?”
“Oh, just… sum guy.”

SumGuy never stood out. Never made waves. He wasn’t the town’s handyman or a war vet or a preacher or even a troublemaker. He was just there. Always on the periphery, watching, listening. He had a knack for making himself small—not just physically, but in presence. In a world obsessed with being seen, he had mastered the art of invisibility.

Then came the Great War.

While others fought tooth and nail for scraps or fell into madness, SumGuy slipped between the cracks. Raiders ignored him, thinking him too pathetic to loot. Super mutants passed him by, uninterested in someone who didn’t even put up a fight. Settlers took his trade and sent him on his way, barely remembering his face. That was his gift.

SumGuy built a camp nestled into the spine of a wooded ridge overlooking the ruins of Flatwoods. It looked like a shack—half collapsed roof, rusted sheet metal siding, and a flickering neon “OPEN” sign he’d rigged with an old toaster coil. But inside, it was a different story. Hidden panels, stashes of rare gear, carefully placed traps and escape tunnels. A dead man’s vault, crafted by a living ghost.

He traded sugar bombs for .308 rounds, moonshine for fuses, and always paid fair. He patched up wounded travelers and never asked for much. Folks came to trust him, but never thought to really look at him.

Just SumGuy.

What they didn’t know was that he could pick a lock in the dark with a bent spoon and a shoelace. That he could mimic any accent he heard. That he knew how to vanish down a slope with nothing but shadows at his back. And most importantly, he knew when to fight—and when to let someone else think they’d won.

People underestimated him. He let them. It was safer that way.

He wasn’t out to be a hero. He wasn’t chasing revenge or justice or glory. He just wanted to survive. And in this new world where everyone wanted to be someone, the smartest move was still being SumGuy.

No flag. No faction. Just a pair of dusty boots, a hunting rifle with a taped-up stock, and a knack for disappearing before the shooting started.

Because in Appalachia, legends burn out fast. But a shadow?

A shadow can live forever.