The sky hung heavy, blanketed by the perpetual grey of ash, as if the sun itself had long since given up. He stood in the shadow of a crumbled building, motionless, eyes scanning the ruins before him. The city was dead, but that didn’t mean it was safe.

His breath came slow, controlled, each exhale barely escaping his lips. He had learned to become the silence. The machines hunted by sound, by movement. One wrong step, one careless breath, and they'd be on him in seconds.

He waited.

The streets below stretched out like an abandoned maze of twisted metal and collapsed structures. Cars, long decayed and overtaken by rust, lined the roads like tombstones. Debris scattered the ground, every piece a potential threat if it shifted underfoot.

He crouched, reaching into his pack to check his supplies. Water: dangerously low. Food: even worse. Ammo: almost gone.

It would be enough for today. It had to be.

The wind howled through the remains of the skyscrapers, sending loose debris tumbling down the streets. His eyes flicked toward the sound, but there was no movement. Nothing yet. But he could feel it. Vindicta's reach was everywhere.

He moved then, quick and quiet, slipping into the next alley like a shadow. His steps were light, practiced, barely making a sound as he navigated the jagged terrain. Every corner, every alleyway, every abandoned car had been mapped in his mind long ago. This was his territory. The only world he knew.

It had to be enough.

His thoughts wandered, though he fought to keep them focused. Memories of past events haunted him still—the fire, the screams, the machines descending from the sky like metal angels of death. His muscles tensed at the thought, his grip tightening on the blade at his side. He had survived. Barely. But survival wasn’t living.

A dull ache throbbed in his chest. He swallowed it down. Emotions had no place here. Not anymore.

A sound.

His breath hitched, eyes darting to the source—a faint hum in the distance. Low. Mechanical.

Drones.

He pressed himself flat against the wall, every muscle taut, waiting. The hum grew louder, the unmistakable hum of sleek, angular drones cutting through the stillness of the dead city. These machines were nothing like the scavenged remnants of past wars—no, these were newer, sharper, with red glowing sensors that scanned the streets, sweeping for any sign of human life.

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He dared a glance around the corner. There it was—hovering just above the street, its sleek frame moving with calculated precision, angular and menacing in its simplicity. Its glowing red eye pierced through the ash-filled air, sweeping back and forth in smooth, rhythmic motions. Searching. Always searching.

He held his breath.

The drone hovered for a moment longer, then drifted lazily away, its sensors turning their gaze elsewhere. It hadn’t seen him. Not this time.

But the machines never moved alone. He knew that.

He counted the seconds in his head, heart pounding against his ribs. Then, as expected, the second drone appeared. It followed the path of the first, its cold red sensor sweeping the ruins below.

His fingers tightened around his blade, though he knew it would be useless if they spotted him. He had to remain still. Invisible. A shadow in the ruins.

Minutes passed.

Finally, the sound of the drones faded, swallowed by the dead city. He exhaled slowly, his body relaxing just enough to move again. But the tension never fully left him. It never could.

He resumed his silent march, weaving through the debris-strewn streets, eyes always forward. Always alert.

As he moved, his mind drifted back, unbidden, to the past. A memory, distant yet painfully sharp, forced its way into his thoughts. His hands slick with blood, the acrid scent of burning flesh in his nose. Someone calling his name, their voice choked with fear. He had failed them.

He blinked hard, forcing the memory back down. There was no room for that now. He was alone, and that was all that mattered. He had to stay focused.

Then, another sound.

This time, it wasn’t a drone.

He froze. His ears strained against the silence, desperate to catch the noise again. It had been faint, barely audible over the wind. But it was there.

A voice.

He crouched low, hiding behind the wreckage of an overturned car, his eyes scanning the desolate street. No movement. No sign of life.

But the voice came again, clearer this time. It echoed faintly off the broken walls, distant but unmistakable.

Someone was out there.

His heartbeat quickened. He hadn’t seen another person in...he didn’t even know how long. Days? Weeks? Months?

He crouched lower, muscles tensed, eyes fixed on the far end of the street where the voice had come from. And then he saw it.

A figure.

Far off, slipping between the ruins like a ghost, barely visible through the ash and dust. Whoever it was, they moved with purpose, not the panicked haste of someone being hunted. They knew the city. They knew how to survive.

He should have felt relieved. Excited, even. But instead, he felt his chest tighten with a familiar dread.

People meant danger. People meant attachments. Attachments meant loss.

The figure disappeared into the ruins, and the silence returned.

For a long moment, he stood there, unmoving, torn between the instinct to follow and the need to remain alone. The weight of isolation pressed down on him, but so did the memory of the past. Of the blood, the flames, the screams.

He couldn’t afford to let it happen again. Not after everything.

He turned away.

With one last glance at where the figure had vanished, he slipped back into the shadows. Tomorrow, he would keep moving. Tomorrow, he would stay alone.

But deep down, he knew that fleeting moment of contact had left a crack in his resolve.

And in a world where trust could get you killed, cracks were dangerous.