The rain had changed.
Brian noticed it before anything else.
Not the sound.
The density.
Each drop struck the rooftop with a heavier impact, splashing wider, spreading faster across the concrete. The water levels below had risen again during the night. Not dramatically. Not enough for panic.
But enough for pressure.
And pressure changed behavior.
Voices carried farther now.
Echoing between buildings, bouncing off wet surfaces, traveling upward with the wind.
Brian stood at the edge of the rooftop, one hand resting lightly on the railing, his gaze scanning the surrounding structures.
Something was different.
People were outside.
Not moving randomly.
Not hiding.
Watching.
A voice broke the pattern.
"Hey!"
Brian didn't react.
"Hey! You!"
Still nothing.
"Foreigner!"
His eyes shifted slightly.
There it was.
The easiest entry point.
More figures appeared.
Balconies. Windows. Rooftops.
Not all at once.
One after another.
Like they were testing each other's courage.
"You've got food!" someone shouted.
"We've seen it!"
"Plenty of it!"
Brian remained still.
Observation first. Always.
A group formed on a nearby rooftop.
Three men. One woman.
Then more joined.
Older faces.
Tired eyes.
Hungry bodies.
An older man stepped forward.
He didn't shout immediately.
He waited.
Made sure he was being watched.
Then spoke.
"That food you have…"
His voice carried surprisingly well through the rain.
"…it doesn't belong to you."
Murmurs followed instantly.
Agreement spread faster than logic.
"It belongs to everyone!"
"To the people!"
"To this country!"
Another voice, sharper:
"You're not even from here!"
Brian exhaled slowly.
Still calm.
Still calculating.
"You've been hiding up there while we're starving!"
"That's not survival—that's theft!"
Brian spoke.
"I prepared."
Silence.
Short.
Sharp.
The older man frowned.
"That's not the point."
"It is," Brian replied.
"No," the man snapped, stepping forward.
"In times like this, people share."
Brian shook his head slightly.
"No," he said calmly.
"In times like this, people take."
That line hit harder than expected.
The reaction was immediate.
Voices rising.
More emotional now.
"So you admit it?"
"You're hoarding!"
"You're letting people die!"
Brian didn't answer.
Because they weren't asking questions anymore.
They were building momentum.
A younger man leaned over the edge of a balcony.
"You think you're smarter than everyone?"
"You think your little books saved you?"
Brian's gaze shifted to him.
Measured.
Silent.
"You don't belong here," the man added.
"People like you come here, take everything, then act superior!"
Laughter followed.
Short.
Encouraging.
Brian's fingers tightened slightly on the railing.
Still controlled.
A woman spoke next.
Not shouting.
Worse.
Calm.
"You could help," she said.
"You have enough."
Her tone was almost reasonable.
Almost convincing.
Brian looked at her.
Longer than the others.
Analyzing.
"How much is enough?" he asked.
The question caught her off guard.
"…More than what you need."
Brian tilted his head slightly.
"And how much do I need?"
Silence.
"You don't even know," he continued.
"You don't know how long this will last."
"You don't know how fast the water will rise."
"You don't know what the mutations will do."
Murmurs again.
Uncertainty this time.
The older man stepped in again, regaining control.
"You're avoiding the question."
"No," Brian said.
"I'm defining it."
That irritated them.
Not because they disagreed.
Because they didn't understand.
"You're just hiding behind words!"
"You think talking like that makes you right?"
Brian's jaw tightened.
Then it shifted.
Again.
"Where's your family?" someone shouted.
"Or did they leave you behind?"
A pause.
Then another voice:
"Maybe they couldn't stand him either."
Laughter.
Louder this time.
Brian didn't move.
But something changed.
Subtle.
But real.
"You hear that?"
"Probably ran away from his own country."
"Came here to survive off us!"
Brian's grip tightened.
Too much.
Knuckles whitening.
Behind him—
movement.
The children.
Listening.
That was the wrong moment.
The worst moment.
"Hey!" one man shouted.
"Send the kids down!"
"They shouldn't be with you!"
Another voice:
"Yeah! We'll take care of them better than you!"
That did it.
Brian laughed.
Once.
Dry.
Sharp.
"You?"
His voice cut through the rain.
Different now.
No longer controlled.
"You want to take care of them?"
He stepped forward.
Too close to the edge.
"You can't even take care of yourselves."
Silence.
Brief.
"You talk about sharing?" he continued.
"You mean taking."
"You mean surviving at someone else's expense."
Voices rose again—
But he didn't stop.
"I've been watching you."
That line hit.
Hard.
"People lying about what they have."
"Trading false information."
"Sending children to beg because you think I won't refuse them."
That one landed.
Deep.
"You think I don't see it?"
Brian's voice sharpened further.
"You think desperation makes you invisible?"
No one laughed now.
"You're not a community," he said.
"You're a system collapsing in real time."
The older man stepped forward again.
Angry now.
"You're just a coward hiding behind supplies!"
Brian smiled.
Cold.
"No," he said quietly.
"I'm the result of preparation."
He pointed—directly at them.
"And you're the result of ignoring reality."
Silence.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Behind him—
"Brian…"
A small voice.
He turned.
Too fast.
One of the children stood there again.
Eyes wide.
Brian froze.
Everything stopped for a second.
Then he exhaled.
Hard.
"…Go inside."
Quieter now.
"Don't stay here."
The child hesitated.
Then obeyed.
When Brian turned back—
The moment had shifted.
He didn't continue.
Didn't escalate further.
He just stepped back.
Turned.
And walked away.
The voices didn't follow him this time.
Back on the rooftop, the rain swallowed everything again.
Brian stood still for a long moment.
Breathing.
Slower.
Controlled.
Then his gaze shifted.
To the containers.
To the fish.
Movement.
Constant.
Aggressive.
Alive.
"…One specimen isn't enough."
He crouched down, watching closely.
Patterns.
Dominance.
Reaction time.
Group behavior.
Single-subject observation was flawed.
Incomplete.
Unreliable.
He stood up.
"I need more."
His mind shifted.
Fast.
From human conflict—
To structure.
To control.
To science.
Fishing gear.
Lines.
Hooks.
Containers.
Preparation began immediately.
Later, inside, Brian opened his notebook.
His handwriting wasn't the same.
Less precise.
More pressure on the page.
"Day 8. Group hostility escalating."
He paused.
Then wrote again.
"Verbal conflict triggered loss of composure."
The pen pressed harder.
Ink slightly uneven.
"Subjects display predictable pattern: fear → aggression → moral justification."
He stopped.
Looked at the page.
Something felt wrong.
He added another line.
Slower.
"…Their arguments lacked structure."
A pause.
Then—
"…but not impact."
The line was darker.
Pressed deeper.
Brian stared at it.
Longer than the others.
Then flipped the page.
"New objective: increase specimen pool."
"Single-subject observation insufficient."
"Group behavior must be studied."
A final line.
Short.
Clear.
"Fishing required."
He closed the notebook.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
The city kept sinking.
And the next phase—
Had already begun.