The Waste is quiet tonight. Too quiet, they always say. Quiet is honest. It means the things out there are listening.

But The Waste is never truly silent. It breathes. It groans. Sometimes it whispers. Zodyl leaned back on the cracked wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded, like he’s dozing. He’s not. His ears are tuned to the scrape of metal shifting under its own forgotten weight, to the drip-drip-drip of some toxic rainwater seeping into the dirt. And, of course, to the nervous heartbeat of the poor soul stuck on watch with him tonight.

They keep glancing at the horizon, like the dark’s going to split open and swallow them whole. Zodyl kicks a stone into the dark, listening to it rattle down the bones of the city-that-was.

“I used to dream about the Upper World. About climbing back up there. Funny thing is, when I finally got a glimpse… I didn’t see freedom. Just another cage. Shinier bars.”

They tense up, like they want to ask how he knows. But they don’t. Smart move.

“Do you ever wonder why the ground doesn’t just eat us alive? Why the Waste hasn’t chewed through these little islands of scrap we cling to? Because it’s waiting. It’s patient. More patient than any of us.”

The silence creeps back in. He noticed his partner can’t sit still now—keeps shifting, checking shadows. He thinks, he’s trying to scare them. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s just telling the truth. Finally, Zodyl let his head fall back, watching the jagged skyline.

“Relax,”

he says.

“If anything comes tonight, I’ll keep you alive.”

He doesn’t mention why.

Not yet.