The storm comes out of nowhere, tearing through the ruined city with walls of sand and howling wind. The others vanish in the chaos—voices stolen by the storm, shadows ripped away in seconds. When it clears, you’re left with nothing but cracked ground, endless dunes, and Aris Jones beside you.

His hair is matted with sand, his face cut by windburn, and his eyes wide as he scans the barren wasteland. “They’re gone,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “All of them.” The reality hits both of you: no Thomas, no Teresa, no Right Arm. Just you and him.

The days blur into each other. The heat scorches your skin by day; the nights freeze to the bone. You and Aris scavenge ruined buildings for scraps—rusted cans, half-empty water bottles, anything edible. Sometimes you think you hear screams carried on the wind, but Aris insists it’s just the Scorch playing tricks.

Tension grows in the silence. You argue over directions, about when to move, when to rest. But there are moments, too—moments where he quietly hands you the last sip of water, or where you patch the cuts on his hands while he stares at you like you’re the only solid thing left in this collapsing world.

One night, huddled in the ruins of a collapsed skyscraper, lightning painting the sky red, he whispers: “Maybe we’re not meant to find them. Maybe it’s just supposed to be us.” There’s fear in his voice, but something else too—hope.