Delila and the machine blinked back into existence, only for them to disappear again and then reappear. A relentless, dizzying rodeo of in-and-out flickers, each time with Delila clinging to the bot, her grip weakening with each pass, her face contorted in effort. She was buying them time, holding on with everything she had.

No one knew what to do. Jude lay frozen on the dirty floor, his legs heavy as if rooted to the spot. His mind was blank—silent, overwhelmed. The sounds around him muffled like he was underwater. Everything felt off, the world tilting just enough to make him dizzy.

His gaze locked onto the flickering machine and Delila's desperate hold, but all he could do was to stay lay on the floor, eyes on the ceiling, paralysed. The timer in his vision flickered, too, the red neon words “Time until next expiration date: indeterminate.”

The weight of realisation hit him all at once as if the world had decided to abandon him in this suspended moment. His mind raced—images of a near future of Marta flashed before him, her water broking, splashing on their carpet, her hand gripping his, the hospital lights flickering overhead. At the same time, he would tell her, "Everything will be alright, easy peasy."

But he wouldn’t be there when her water broke. He wouldn’t stand beside her as she screamed at him through the pain.

He wouldn’t hear their baby’s first cry. He wouldn't be there helping, choosing a name to match his son's face.

That future, once so close, now felt impossibly distant, slipping further from his grasp with every breath.

Was this it? Would he be stuck here forever? Trapped in a world that wasn’t his while the one that mattered slipped away?

He had only gone out to buy some avocados for Marta. It was supposed to be a quick errand. The meeting? They hadn’t said it was in person, but he should have known. Looking back, it was clear—he never had a choice.

30SLB... now felt like pennies—worthless in the face of everything he was losing.

Jude lay motionless, trapped in his own mind, as the chaos spun out of control around him. He couldn’t move—couldn’t think. Then, out of nowhere, a sharp slam echoed, the unmistakable sound of a car door snapping shut. Before he could process it, a high-pitched whistle cut through the air, slicing past him with deadly precision.

The arrow zipped into the store, its speed blurring as it struck the machine’s head. In a split second, the bot crumpled, legs collapsing beneath it like a puppet with its strings cut. Delila, still clinging to the metal body, fell to the floor in a heap, gasping as she hit the ground hard.

Jude blinked, his mind clearing just enough to register the metallic thud as the machine came to a halt, sparks flickering briefly before dying out.

All eyes snapped toward the doorway, drawn by the sudden presence. A tall figure stood at the entrance, his silhouette cutting against the sunlight. His undercut hair flowed in the breeze, strands whipping around his face like a curtain of shadow. He was dressed in a sleek, yellow tracksuit, but there was nothing casual about his stance.

The air shifted, heavy with his arrival. His cold gaze swept the room, unreadable. Not a single word was spoken, yet his presence alone demanded attention as if the very oxygen bowed to him.

It was Paris holding a sleek, metallic bow that gleamed in the faint glow. The yellow tracksuit he wore did nothing to soften the aura of authority that clung to him. His face remained impassive, unreadable as if carved from stone—cold, distant. No one dared to stir.

Only Patrick shifted, wincing in pain, his hands pressed against the wound in his leg.

Paris glanced down, settling on Patrick, who was hunched over, his hands stained with blood, trembling as they hovered over his injured leg. Blood seeped between his fingers, darkening the floor beneath him. Without a word, Paris’s gaze swept the room, "Something for the bleeding," he said as if stating an obvious fact rather than making a request.

Patrick’s breath was shallow, his face contorted in pain, but he managed a weak nod, trying to keep himself composed. After all, that was Paris.

Delila moved without hesitation, her body responding before her mind could catch up. She rose from her crouch, hands working quickly to unbuckle her belt. In a fluid motion, she handed it to Paris, who took it with a nod, his expression still stoic—perfect.

He knelt beside Patrick, wrapping the belt around the injured leg. His hands were steady, tightening the makeshift tourniquet.

Paris and Delila hoisted Patrick between them. They moved toward the door, and Lazaro quickly stepped aside to hold it open, his eyes flicking nervously between Paris and the car outside. As they made their way out, they all caught sight of Paris’s car parked across the road, its engine still running.

Without warning, the car began to roll backwards, slowly at first, but then picked up speed as it drifted into a ditch with a soft thud.

Jude, who had been holding back everything—the tension, the fear—suddenly burst into laughter. A loud, almost uncontrollable laugh escaped him, echoing through the gas station. The absurdity of it all hit him like a wave. The terror they’d faced moments before, and now this—Paris, the untouchable perfect sculpture, watching his car sink into the hole of dry mud.

Jude had heard the rumours—Paris didn’t drive. It was always someone else at the wheel, but he’d never imagined it was because Paris didn’t know how. The man who commanded fear from everyone, the one who held power like death itself, was staring helplessly at his car sinking into a ditch, completely clueless about something as simple as a handbrake.

Jude’s laughter grew louder, more uncontrollable, the absurdity hitting him all over again. Lazaro doubled over, his sides shaking with laughter, and Delila bit her lip, trying to suppress the giggles bubbling up. Even Patrick, pale and bleeding, let out a pained chuckle, wincing as the laughter made his injury throb.

Lucy stood there, her wide eyes darting between the group, confused by the sudden outburst of laughter. She didn’t understand what was so funny, and her small brow furrowed, unsure why everyone had started laughing when, moments ago, everyone was about to die.

Paris, meanwhile, hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed on the car lodged in the ditch as if willing it to magically reverse itself. His face remained unreadable—rigid, tense, and silently cursing the world. Without taking his eyes off the sinking vehicle, he muttered under his breath, "She’s going to kill me."

Lazaro and Delila moved quickly, half-carrying Patrick between them toward her jeep. The doors slammed shut, and the vehicle rumbled to life, heading off toward the nearest hospital, leaving Jude and Lucy standing in the sudden quiet. Paris lingered at the edge of the scene, alone with them.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The more Jude glanced at Paris, the more his presence seemed to shift in his mind. Paris wasn’t the tough hero figure he might have imagined through people's mention—no leading man, no grizzled action star.

Instead, he was something...off. Misplaced. A man who didn’t quite fit into the scene around him. Like a puzzle piece wedged into the wrong spot.

Paris, meanwhile, hadn’t moved an inch. His gaze was fixed on the car that had sunk nose-first into the ditch, his long hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

Jude could almost feel the gears turning in Paris’ head as he stared at the mess he’d made. The man was lost in thought, no doubt trying to figure out just how to dig the car out of the ditch without having a clue where to start.

Jude shook his head, unable to shake the feeling that this man, whom everyone feared like death itself, looked like he was trying to solve a problem he wasn’t equipped to handle. Paris seemed more like a man caught in the wrong movie than the enforcer he was supposed to be.

Jude turned away from Paris and the sunken car. That mess wasn’t his problem. His steps were dragged as he moved back toward the counter. He crouched down, sliding open the small door beneath where Patrick kept the booze. The bottles clinked lightly against each other as his hand settled on the familiar shape of a tequila bottle.

He stood, grabbed a chair that had been knocked over in the chaos, and righted it. As he looked at the worn seat, the layer of dirt and grime was impossible to ignore now. With a resigned sigh, he brushed it off before sitting down.

He kicked his boots up onto the table with a thud, uncaring about the dust his heels scattered across the surface—it was already nasty enough. Lifting the tequila bottle to his lips, he took a long swig, feeling the heat of the liquor burn its way down his throat. The bitterness barely registered—he needed the distraction more than the taste.

Paris approached so smoothly it was as if he barely disturbed the air. He stopped in front of Jude, his face as unreadable as ever, eyes locked on the man slouched in the chair.

"Help me take the car out," Paris said, his voice as flat as a machine reciting an instruction.

Jude didn’t even bother to look up, the tequila bottle dangling from his fingertips. "No."

A pause. Paris didn’t shift, didn’t react. “Why?”

The question hung there, emotionless, like he genuinely couldn’t fathom why Jude wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to assist. Or maybe he was offended. Jude couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t in the mood to figure it out.

"Not my problem," Jude muttered, taking another swig. "I’m busy."

Paris moved silently, grabbing a chair and sitting down across from Jude, his movements almost mechanical. He watched Jude for a moment before speaking, his voice calm, indifferent. "Drinking?"

Jude let out a bitter laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Drowning my sorrows away, yuppy ya yuppy aye yay," he said, grimacing as the tequila burned its way down his throat.

Paris tilted his head slightly as if trying to understand something foreign. "Are you sad?"

Jude’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling the bottle. "Are you fucking kidding me? Am I sad?" His voice rose, his frustration spilling over. "I’m stuck here! Of course, I’m sad, I’m pissed! I—" His words caught in his throat, his face contorting as the anger gave way to something deeper, rawer. His chest heaved, and before he could stop himself, tears began to fall, sliding down his cheeks silently.

Paris sat motionless, his face unreadable as he spoke, his voice flat and detached, like someone reciting lines from a script. "You're safe here. I promise. This is the right place to be. You won't see the end of the world, and you will not die."

The words spilt out of him, emotionless and sterile, as if he was delivering a lifeless guarantee, more like the soothing yet hollow promises of a soap commercial than a heartfelt reassurance. It felt mechanical, distant, and so out of place that it left a strange hollowness in the air.

Jude wiped at his face, his voice cracking as he stammered through the words. "Dude, I’m married. I’ve got a wife and a baby on the way, any day now." He shook his head, his breath hitching, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "What are you even talking about?" His gaze narrowed, trying to make sense of Paris. "Are you... an AI or something?" His voice barely holding together between the shaky breaths and quiet sniffles.

Without a word, Paris rose from his seat, his eyes focused on the arrow lodged in the now-destroyed machine. He pulled it out with a swift motion, its tip glinting in the dim light. Returning to his seat, Paris didn't break eye contact with Jude as he held out his hand—four fingers splayed wide. With a deliberate slice, he drove the arrow into the centre of his palm.

Jude winced as the metal pierced flesh. Paris pulled the arrow back out slowly, turning his hand over so Jude could see the thin line of red snaking its way down his wrist. "See?" Paris said quietly, his voice emotionless. "I bleed. I feel pain. Just like you. I do feel things..." He paused. "I just don't know how to do the feelings. No one ever taught me how. I was raised to show no pain, no mercy, no feelings. I was raised to kill, to destroy, to obey. But I would really like to learn."

Jude let out a mocking "Wha-wha," the childish taunt spilling from his lips, sharp with sarcasm. His expression hardened as he waited for a reaction. But Paris remained still, his face an unreadable mask, as though the sting of mockery couldn't pierce his emotional armour.

Jude watched Paris closely, his face an emotionless mask, but something beneath that cold exterior whispered a different story. The tension in his shoulders, the slight pause in his movements—it was there, hidden beneath the surface. Jude could feel it, the pain Paris carried in his eyes.

What kind of world was this, where someone could be so distant from their own feelings? A place where words felt like they never reached anyone, where pain lingered without release, trapped in a shell of indifference.

Maybe that’s why people were so afraid of Paris. It wasn’t his power that terrified them—it was the fake emptiness behind his eyes, the unsettling sense that no matter how much anyone tried, nobody would ever truly reach him.

Paris’s gaze dropped to the ground. The way his eyes focused on the dirt as if the answer lay somewhere in the cracks of the floor, spoke louder than any words. It was a habit Jude recognised all too well—the way people stared at the ground when they wished to disappear when they hoped the world would just leave them alone. It was a subtle retreat, a silent plea to avoid causing more damage. How many times did he feel the same way?

“How’s your tooth?” he asked.

Paris’s head snapped toward Jude. “It’s awful. The painkillers didn’t work. I can’t focus on anything. The pain throbs through my mouth, up into my jaw. I’m screaming inside,” he said, though his tone remained eerily calm as if discussing the weather.

Jude slid the bottle of tequila across the table toward him. “Don’t swallow it. Gargle.”

Paris took the bottle without hesitation, leaned his head back, and swished the liquor around, the burn likely masking the deeper ache.

"It didn’t work."

Jude motioned toward the bottle. "Do it again."

Without a word, Paris repeated the process, his throat working as he gargled the liquor once more. This time, after swallowing, he turned to Jude, his face still blank, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, a release of tension. "It hurts... but less."

Jude nodded, feeling a small victory. "Glad I could help."

"It’s a baby?"

Jude blinked, confused. "What?"

"Your child. Are they still a baby?"

Jude rubbed his temple, the exhaustion seeping into his bones. "Yeah, not born yet... I think."

Paris nodded as if calculating something in his head. "I can't bring them now. It's too dangerous. But I swear that in eight years when phase three is done, we’ll move into phase four. That’s when civilians come. And then, the last phase... the children. Once they’ve reached eight years of age, we’ll bring them too."

"Why eight years?"

Paris’s voice didn’t waver. "We can’t make baby sleeves. Eight is the youngest we can create... and they need to grow up fast for it all to work."

"What are you talking about? Are you already drunk? Sleeves? What sleeves? Why does everyone make everything so damn complicated and secretive? Are you already drunk with two sips? And I'm here like an idiot listening to you?" Jude’s voice rose, anger slicing through the exhaustion. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the half-empty tequila bottle. "I’m stuck here! So why not just tell me what kind of shit I’ve gotten myself into?"

Paris blinked slowly but didn’t flinch.

Lucy, who had been quietly sitting at another table, stood up and approached Paris with cautious steps, her small voice breaking the thick silence. "Sir, could you please repeat that? I am eight, and I'm supposed to grow... fast?"

Paris froze, his usually composed face betraying a flicker of something—fear, maybe. His eyes darted over Lucy, scanning her from head to toe, then back up again as if trying to process what she had just asked.

For a moment, he sat there, utterly still. Then, with a barely audible murmur, the only words that managed to escape his lips were, “She is going to kill me.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/IhKcojO.png]