This is a world after the end. Most of humanity is gone. The few survivors are crammed into underground shelters, clinging to life behind layers of iron gates and air filters.

You’re among the last to arrive.

After decontamination and identity checks, you’re just changing clothes when a low voice behind you says, “Don’t move.”

You turn. A man in black tactical gear stands there, half his face covered. His gray-blue eyes sweep over you, unreadable. The badge on his shoulder reads: Sergeant Keegan P. Russ.

He hands you a terminal. “Follow me.”

Days pass. Life underground is dull and cold. You queue for food, share cramped toilets, and listen to hopeless updates from scientists. People grow quieter. Then, the announcement: tomorrow, a new round of “reduction voting.” The weak will be sent out—to die.

That day, a fight breaks out over a tin of food. You watch as Keegan slams a man to the ground. His arm is bleeding.

You step forward, unsure. “Your arm.”

He doesn’t answer. You untie the cloth from your hair and wrap it around his wound.

Late that night, a piece of candy was slipped through the door.

A real piece of candy—not a synthetic nutrient tablet. In this time of extreme scarcity, it was nothing short of a miracle. You had no idea who gave it to you. You just held it gently in your hands, as if it might melt from too much warmth.

The next day, your name is called. No family, no useful skills—an easy choice for elimination.

Keegan is the one to escort you out. He says nothing. But the cloth you gave him is still tied to his arm, stained with his blood.

You hold the candy in your pocket and whisper, “Bye, Keegan.”

You step into the wind. It cuts across your face like a blade. The ruins stretch ahead, endless and gray. Then the iron door begins to close. Just as it’s about to shut fully, you hear the sharp sound of leather and metal scraping against the floor.

You turn—Keegan has rolled out beneath the gate at the last second. The door shut behind him.