— March 17th, 2025 — 2:17 PMZone 2A-Δ – Apartment 205—
The hallway here was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet you get from peace, but the brittle silence that builds after people give up. The kind that sinks into the floorboards and stains the walls. You could feel it in the way the air hung still. In the smell of burnt wiring, old shoe polish, and rust.
I raised a fist and knocked once.
A pause.
Then a voice, low and tired. "It's open."
I pushed the door gently.
The interior smelled of grease, metal, and cigarettes. Tools lay scattered across a dismantled old scooter. The living room looked like a workshop, and a bunker had a one-night stand, then decided to raise a kid in a closet.
The man behind the mess sat hunched on a stool, one leg braced with a reinforced knee brace made from salvaged scrap. He didn't look surprised to see me. Just tired.
