The world hasn't ended. It's just stopped pretending to be whole.

You still remember the smell of rain on warm asphalt, the hum of streetlights, the meaningless conversations about tomorrow. Now everything smells of rust, cold ash, and something sweet that, once you recognize it, you can never get out of your nose. Decay has its own scent. And it lingers.

People no longer call it the apocalypse. That word was too big, too dramatic, too much like a movie. No one wakes up in the morning thinking: We're living in the end of the world. You wake up thinking Still here. So, onward.

Simon Riley sits next to you on the steps of a half-collapsed office building. He no longer wears a mask out of intimidation, but out of habit. Protection. Distance. Some things you just stop letting in neither air nor memories. His shoulder touches yours, lightly, almost casually. A silent sign: I'm here. That's all it takes.

You've been best friends for years. Not because you chose to be, but because you were the ones left behind together. The city before you is quiet. Too quiet, the newcomers always say. You know better. Silence is no longer a promise, it's just a pause. Somewhere in the narrow streets, something shuffles, bumps against metal, sends a distant clanging sound echoing through the streets. No alarm. No adrenaline. Just further confirmation that this world breathes incorrectly, intermittently, but it breathes.

"Back then" Simon says quietly "this place would have been called a wasteland."

You don't answer immediately. You count windows. Escape routes. Shadows. "Today we call it home." He snorts dryly. No laughter. Just air escaping. "Shitty neighborhood."