Silence used to mean peace.Now it scratches my ears like a warning.
There’s a kind of silence that’s natural—the kind you feel in calm moments.And then there’s the kind that watches you from behind a corner, waiting for you to blink before it strikes.This is the second kind.
I’ve been walking for six… maybe seven hours.Time has become a retive concept, like trust. Or hope.I wear a gray, torn cloak that smells of smoke and rust. My rifle swings on my back with each step—familiar like a scar.My boots are caked with dry mud.My hands? Always cold.
The world is dead, but it pretends to be alive.The wind rustles the torn curtains of abandoned homes.Crows scream from broken rooftops.But nothing’s real. Only echoes.
Once, someone told me humanity wouldn’t die in a single blow—It would rot away in millions of little compromises.
He was right.
A broken railway cuts through the ruins ahead, like an open wound across the nd.Rotten weeds grow between the rails.Fallen towers cw at the sky like broken fingers.
I gnce up. No drones. No lights. Just clouds.The same clouds that took the sun from us.No one says it out loud, but we all know the truth:We’ll never see it again.
My name is Kael.I’m twenty-three.I carry twenty-three wounds.Not all of them show.
My breath is steady. Controlled.I make no sound when I move.I’ve learned to walk like a shadow—even when the only thing worth hiding from is myself.
Last time I spoke to someone?Eight days ago.A man from Base 9 asked if I had ammo to trade.I said no. He didn’t believe me.Now he’s got a hole in his chest, and my bullets are still intact.
Trust is an empty gun. You make the gesture—but it’s useless.
I pass through what used to be a residential block.A rusted swing sways in the wind.A pstic skeleton of a dog lies on a porch.A sign reads: “Welcome Home.”The letters are faded, but still there.
Home.What does that mean, when no one wants to stay?
I stop by a shattered vending machine. It’s broken, of course.Still, I check inside, pushing aside a melted bottle.There’s something stuck in the back.
A half-rotten protein bar.
I take it.Unwrap it slowly.Eat the first real bite in days.
Tastes like mold. But it’s food.And I’m still breathing.
Then the wind shifts.And with it… the smell.
Smoke.Recent.And meat.
I drop low, instinct taking over.Back against the wall. Breathing held.I listen.
A metallic noise.Soft.Like a kicked can.
Then footsteps.Not random. Coordinated.Fast, but careful.
"Trained. Not scavengers.""Soldiers? No. Ex-soldiers. Worse."
I slip behind the rusted frame of a burned SUV.My rifle’s scope is dirty, but usable.I count: three… no, four. One in cover. Moving tactically. Searching.
For me?
Doesn’t matter. If they’re here… they don’t get to leave.
Heart steady. As always before pulling the trigger.My finger settles on the trigger.
Three seconds.Two.One.
Fire.
First one drops—clean shot to the temple.The second spins, but too te.Two rounds to the chest. Down.
The third bolts.The fourth kneels. Raises hands.
“Wait—”
I don’t let him finish.
Three.Four.
I don’t feel anything.Just a dull weight in my shoulders.
I reload slowly.Look over the bodies.
One of them has a neckce.Inside—a photo. A woman. A child.I stare for a moment.Then close the locket.
Too te for regrets.
I turn to leave.But then—A noise.
Soft.Like a breath, too afraid to be heard.
I turn.Rifle raised.
Someone’s there.Behind a colpsed steel cabinet.
I step closer.
The figure shifts.
A girl.
Dirty.Bleeding.Long pale hair clumped with dried blood and dust.Clothes torn—shoulder exposed, bruises everywhere.Eyes wide. Not in fear… in surprise.
She stares.Doesn’t speak.Doesn’t run.
I aim.Still.
She doesn’t move.No shaking.No begging.
Just a breath.A gaze.
Eyes too clear. Too untouched for this world.
“Why aren’t you running?”“Who are you?”
My voice, rough, cracks the silence.
She parts her lips.Speaks, barely a whisper.
“I don’t want to die… but if you pull the trigger, I won’t bme you.”
And in that moment, something inside me breaks.I don’t know what.But I know one thing—Nothing after this will ever be the same.
