The ruins whispered at night.

Wind howled through broken steel beams, rattling loose glass in skeletal windows. The hollow remnants of a city stretched out beneath the gray sky, its streets littered with rusted cars and the bones of the forgotten.

It had been years since life truly lived here. Now, only the desperate and the damned remained.

Caleb adjusted his grip on the rifle strapped to his back, his breath visible in the cold air. He moved cautiously through the wreckage, his boots crunching over shattered concrete. Behind him, Reyna and Jonah followed, their eyes scanning the darkness for movement.

They weren’t alone.

They never were.

Sari had been the one to hear it first.

The four of them had set up camp in an old office building, using the upper floors for cover. The ground was too exposed—too many blind corners, too many ways to die.

She had shaken Caleb awake in the dead of night, her voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s something out there.”

He had listened.

At first, only silence. Then, barely perceptible beneath the wind… footsteps.

Not the heavy, reckless march of raiders. Not the shambling, uncoordinated steps of the sick or starving.

Measured. Deliberate. Watching.

Now, as they moved through the ruins, Caleb felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing against them.

They had tracked the movement for over an hour, weaving through the crumbling remnants of the past, staying just out of sight. Whoever—or whatever—was out there had done the same.

Jonah stopped suddenly, raising a fist. The signal to halt.

Reyna tensed, her hand drifting to the pistol at her hip. “What?”

Jonah didn’t answer immediately. He crouched, running his fingers through the dirt.

Fresh footprints. Too fresh.

“Someone’s leading us,” Jonah muttered.

Sari paled. “Leading us where?”

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They found out soon enough.

The street ahead opened into a courtyard, long overgrown with dead trees and brittle vines. A massive, circular fountain stood at its center, its stone cracked and weathered by time.

And in the middle of it all, a figure stood waiting.

Caleb’s breath slowed.

The man was tall, wrapped in layers of tattered cloth and scavenged armor. His face was obscured by a dark hood, his hands hidden beneath his sleeves.

He did not move.

He simply stood.

Watching.

Reyna was the first to break the silence. “You lost?”

The figure didn’t react.

Jonah adjusted his grip on his knife, shifting slightly. Caleb could feel the tension crackling in the air, the quiet understanding that something wasn’t right.

Sari took a slow step back. “Caleb,” she whispered. “We should go.”

The figure finally spoke.

“You are not supposed to be here.”

His voice was low and smooth, barely louder than the wind. It didn’t sound like a threat.

But it felt like one.

Caleb didn’t lower his guard. “Funny. We were about to say the same to you.”

The figure tilted his head slightly. “You walk where the old world fell. You chase echoes that are not yours.”

Jonah let out a short, humorless laugh. “Great. A wasteland prophet.”

Reyna took a step forward. “Who are you?”

A pause.

Then:

“I am the last.”

Silence.

Sari swallowed hard. “The last… what?”

The figure exhaled slowly, like he was considering how much to say. Then he reached up, pulling back his hood.

And for the first time, they saw his face.

The skin was burned. Not fresh wounds—but old scars, deep and layered. His scalp was covered in ritualistic markings, faded symbols carved into the flesh long ago.

But it was his eyes that froze Caleb in place.

Brandings. Where his eyes should have been, the flesh was scorched, as if something had been pressed against him long enough to sear the sockets closed.

He should have been blind.

But somehow… he wasn’t.

Reyna stiffened. “What the hell—”

The man raised a hand. Not a threat. A warning.

“You do not understand where you stand,” he said. “The Watcher’s eye does not gaze here. The Sanctified do not come here.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

The man’s ruined gaze locked onto him.

“Because even they know not to disturb the things left buried.”

The wind howled

The ruins shifted—not physically, but in the feeling of the air.

Caleb had spent years surviving in the wasteland. He had faced raiders, sickness, starvation. He had seen men reduced to animals.

But this was different.

For the first time in a long time…

He felt like he was standing somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

Jonah took a step closer to Caleb, lowering his voice. “We should listen to Sari. We need to leave.”

Caleb clenched his jaw. His instincts screamed at him to agree, but something about this man would not let him walk away yet.

“…Who did this to you?” he asked finally.

The man was quiet for a long time. Then:

“They tried to make me see.”

A pause.

“I would not.”

That was it. That was all he said.

But that was enough.

Caleb nodded, his grip on his rifle easing just slightly. “Then we won’t stay.”

The man tilted his head. “You are wise.”

Jonah was already backing away. Sari clutched her notebook to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Reyna lingered a moment longer, staring at the scarred man like she wanted to say something.

Then, without another word, the four of them turned and left.

And as they vanished back into the ruins, the wind carried one final whisper from the blind man.

“Do not return.”