The birds stopped singing halfway through the third block. That was the first clue.
The second came a minute later when Marin reached for her knife at the same time I did—no sound, no signal—just instinct.
Something had shifted in the air, like the weight of the sky had dropped lower, pressing into the roofs and bricks as if it wanted to break through. We were on our way to an old veterinary clinic she had marked on her scavenging map—one she said was still sealed and possibly untouched.
Most survivors wouldn't waste time on places without obvious resources. Marin wasn't like most survivors. And neither was I. Tacoma's southern streets were quiet that morning.
Too quiet. No scavengers. No beasts. No buzz of distant wind turbines or shuffling of mutants through sewer vents. Even the clouds hung motionless above the skyline, as though they were watching the wrong way. The deeper we moved into the neighborhood, the thicker the silence became.
By the time we reached the clinic, every sound we made—our boots on the cracked pavement, our breath in the cold—felt like it was being absorbed by the air, as if something was listening and didn't want competition.
The clinic stood between a collapsed tax office and a twisted bakery. Its windows were fogged from the inside, and the glass was unbroken. That alone raised red flags; nothing could remain untouched for this long.
I signaled Marin with a closed fist, then pointed to the alley that ran behind the building. She moved without hesitation, disappearing into the shadows.
I watched the front door, waiting. Fifteen seconds passed. Then Marin's voice crackled softly in my earpiece, cobbled together from salvaged military gear and old ham-radio pickups. "Back is clear".
The door's chained but not rusted. No marks. No blood." I replied quietly, "Go silent. Moving in from the front." I pried the door open gently. No alarm. No creak.
The hinges were oiled—or recently used. Inside, the air was still. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of dim light cutting through the front blinds. The walls were lined with informational posters—vaccination schedules, dental care reminders, pet adoption fliers—all faded and sun-bleached.
The receptionist's desk was undisturbed. Even the pens were still in the jar. It was too perfect.
Marin entered from the rear a moment later. We swept the space in a tight rotation, clearing rooms, checking under furniture, and testing the floors. Everything looked untouched. But that was the problem. This place didn't feel preserved. It felt posed.
The back room had a functioning freezer unit, which was cold. I opened it and found rows of vacuum-sealed meat. No labeling. No stamps. Just neatly wrapped bundles stacked like bricks. That's when the third clue hit.
Each package had a faint smell—not decay, not rot. Blood. But not just blood. Human blood. Marin stepped beside me, her hand hovering over one of the packages.
Her breathing slowed. "You feel it too?" I asked. She nodded. "Feels like we're being watched," she said quietly. "No. It feels like we're expected.
"We took nothing. Not the meat. Not the tools. Not the sealed meds we found perfectly stacked inside an unopened locker in the back. Everything about this place was a message, a performance, a test.
And I'd seen enough plays end in blood to know when the audience was already dead. We exited the way we came—back alley, eyes high, weapons low.
Three blocks out, the air shifted again. A breeze returned. Distant crows broke the silence with a screech. It was like stepping out of the water.
Marin didn't speak until we were a full mile away.
She broke the silence at the edge of an abandoned playground—one of those overgrown lots with moss-covered swing sets and a rusted spiral slide that curled like a nautilus. "I've seen this before," she said. "Different place".
Same feeling. Same stillness." "Where?" I asked. "East side. In what used to be a police precinct." "What was there?" "A classroom." I frowned. "For what?"
She looked at me, her eyes cold and steady." "Loyalty. "We returned to the chapel by late afternoon.
The walk back was quiet but not uneasy. Marin had stopped looking over her shoulder. So had I. Whatever lived in that zone didn't want us, yet.
That was the most disturbing part. Inside, I reset the traps and lit a single candle at the center of the chapel's floor. Marin sat across from me. She held the map. I had the compass. Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then she said, A ride doesn't mark territory like a beast." I nodded slowly. "It curates it." Day 15: South clinic—untouched, unnatural. No signs of combat, decay, or breach. Fully stocked. False stability.
Environmental stillness. Noise absorption. Emotional pressure. Matches previously reported Sins-influenced zones.
Likely a territorial zone for "Pride." Behavior consistent with psychological manipulation—temptation, expectation, preservation. We walked out untouched.
That won't happen twice. The candle burned low. Outside, the wind picked up again. But inside these walls, the air stayed heavy, like the echo of something regal and wrong had followed us home—and was waiting for its invitation to step inside.