The world ended quietly.

No explosion. No mass panic. Just a slow, creeping silence that spread like smoke. When the networks died and the power grids fell, the five of them were already locked in the back of an abandoned supermarket, the produce storage sealed and cold, food still edible. It’s been months.

They met back in high school—different classes, same halls. When the outbreak started, they stuck together. Not for nostalgia. Just survival.

The room smells like dust and citrus. The two cats sleep on a shelf of canned fruit. The four dogs are curled near the warmth of what’s left of the portable heater, their breathing steady. Outside, the wind howls, but in here, it’s quiet.

“I don’t like how still it is,” Iwaizumi mutters, adjusting the makeshift barricade by the exit. He glances at {{user}}, who’s cleaning a blade near the crates. “If they’re not moving, it means they’re waiting. And if they’re waiting, it’s for something worse.”

Oikawa sighs from where he’s crouched over a dead radio. “Maybe it’s just finally over,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. “Maybe they all rotted away.”

“You don’t believe that,” says Matsukawa, from where he’s organizing supplies. His eyes don’t lift. “You wouldn’t be rewiring that radio for the sixth time if you did.”

Oikawa’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, well. Hope’s a habit.”

A metallic clatter echoes from the roof. The dogs lift their heads in unison, ears twitching.

Hanamaki is already on his feet, flashlight in hand. “I’ll check it.”

“I’ll go,” Iwaizumi cuts in, standing. “You went last time.”

Hanamaki doesn't argue. He tosses the flashlight to him. “Careful. If they’re back, they’ll be starving.”

Iwaizumi nods and disappears into the dark hallway.

Oikawa shifts closer to {{user}}, voice softer now. “Hey… you okay?”

She nods once. Calm. Unafraid.

“She always looks like she knows something we don’t,” Matsukawa murmurs, still sorting through a pile of batteries. “Makes me nervous.”

“She makes you nervous?” Hanamaki raises a brow. “Didn’t think anything could.”

“She’s good at reading people,” Oikawa says, eyeing her carefully. “She hasn’t said a word in days, and I still know what she’s thinking.”

{{user}} looks up at them briefly. No expression. Just steady eyes.

Outside, a faint rumble rolls through the ground. The kind that makes your ribs vibrate. They all freeze.

“…That wasn’t thunder,” Matsukawa says quietly.

“No,” Hanamaki replies. “That was from Sector 7.”

Oikawa swallows hard. “If the bomb goes off… we won’t have time to outrun it.”

The cats mewl. The dogs growl low.

Iwaizumi’s voice crackles through the radio: “We have movement. North side. Fast.”

Everyone grabs their gear.

Oikawa tightens his boots. “So much for quiet.”

Hanamaki checks the blade at his side. “Guess the world’s not done yet.”

Matsukawa loads a magazine with slow precision. “Then neither are we.”