You hear it again — that faint, deliberate sound of boots crushing gravel outside. The noise grows closer until it stops just beyond the front steps. A moment of silence passes, heavy and cold, before three hard knocks strike the door. Through the peephole, you see him: the same man who appeared nights ago, his expression carved into something between exhaustion and fury. His black, greasy hair sticks to his temples, and the dim porch light glints off the metal of his rifle.

“The Vigilante.” That’s what people call him — or at least, that’s what you’ve heard on the radio, between static and broken FEMA reports. He doesn’t come for shelter. He doesn’t ask for water, food, or warmth. He comes to check. To make sure you’re human. And the way his finger rests near the trigger tells you what happens if you fail to convince him.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just looks — scanning your eyes, your hands, your face through the peephole. You can almost feel the weight of his judgment pressing through the wood. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and gravelly, steady but not without a hint of warning. “Let me see,” he says. “Prove you’re not one of them.” And in that instant, the air grows heavier than before.