The rain never stopped.
It pressed against the rooftop like a constant weight, a dull and endless roar that filled every gap between thoughts.
Brian stood near the edge, watching the water far below.
It had risen again.
Not enough to reach the lower levels completely.
But enough to erase streets.
Cars were gone now.
Signs, lights, sidewalks—everything beneath the surface blurred into a shifting gray mass.
The city was dissolving.
Behind him, the containers moved slightly.
Water shifted.
The fish inside circled endlessly.
Restless.
Aggressive.
Alive in a way that felt wrong.
Brian crouched down beside them.
He watched without blinking.
Patterns.
Speed.
Reaction.
"Still unstable…" he murmured.
His fingers tapped lightly against the container's edge.
The fish reacted instantly.
All of them.
Turning toward the movement.
Too fast.
Too coordinated.
"Group response…"
He leaned closer.
Too close.
The fish slammed against the side of the container.
One after another.
Violent.
Brian didn't flinch.
But he stepped back.
Slightly.
"Not normal."
A small voice behind him.
"Is it dangerous?"
Brian turned.
One of the children stood there.
Barefoot.
Too close again.
"Yes," Brian said immediately.
Then, softer—
"Stay back."
The child hesitated.
"But it's just a fish…"
Brian shook his head.
"No."
A pause.
"It used to be."
The child didn't understand.
Good.
Brian stepped forward slightly, placing himself between the container and the child without thinking.
"Don't get close to the water," he added.
"Not anymore."
The child nodded slowly.
Then stepped back.
Brian watched him go.
Just for a second longer than necessary.
Then he turned back to the fish.
A sound broke the moment.
Dull.
Heavy.
Below.
Brian froze instantly.
His head tilted slightly.
Listening.
Another sound.
A knock.
Not random.
Not accidental.
Deliberate.
Brian stood slowly.
His gaze moved toward the stairwell leading down into the building.
Another knock.
Harder this time.
"Please! Open!"
Brian didn't move immediately.
He waited.
Counted.
Listened.
Footsteps.
More than one person.
Breathing.
Close to the door.
He reached for his crossbow.
Then moved.
Slowly.
Silently.
The apartment felt different now.
Smaller.
Tighter.
The knocking came again.
"Please! We know you're there!"
Brian stopped in front of the door.
Didn't touch it.
Didn't stand too close.
"Speak," he said.
There was a pause.
Then a man's voice answered.
"We're not here to fight. We just need food."
Brian said nothing.
"Just a little," the man added quickly.
"We can trade."
Brian leaned slightly closer.
Listening.
Two voices.
Possibly three.
"State your offer."
"We know the area," the man said.
"Safe buildings. Where gangs are moving. Who to avoid."
Brian processed it instantly.
Information.
Temporary value.
Unstable.
"You're wasting time," the man continued.
"We know you have supplies."
Of course they did.
Visibility had always been the problem.
Brian's gaze flicked briefly toward the stairs leading up to the rooftop.
Toward the children.
"I will not open the door," he said.
Silence.
Then frustration.
"Then listen!"
Brian didn't move.
"Something's wrong with the water!"
That made him pause.
Not because of the information.
Because of the tone.
Fear.
Real.
"Explain."
"Fish aren't normal anymore!" the man said quickly.
"People are getting sick eating them. Fever. Aggression—some of them attack others!"
Brian closed his eyes briefly.
Confirmation.
External.
"I am aware," he said calmly.
Silence.
"…You what?"
"The aquatic ecosystem is undergoing rapid mutation."
No response.
Of course.
Brian adjusted.
"Don't eat the fish."
A long pause.
"…That's it?"
"Yes."
A second voice joined in.
A woman.
"What else are we supposed to eat?"
Brian didn't answer immediately.
Because there was no good answer.
"Stored food," he said finally.
"Dry goods. Sealed supplies."
A hollow laugh.
"We don't have that."
Brian said nothing.
He already knew.
A soft sound behind him.
Movement.
Brian turned sharply.
Another child this time.
Standing in the hallway.
Listening.
Too close.
Too exposed.
Brian's expression hardened—
But not completely.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I heard voices…"
Brian walked toward him.
Slow.
Controlled.
He crouched slightly.
Just enough.
"It's not safe down here," he said.
"Go back upstairs."
The child hesitated.
"Are they bad?"
Brian paused.
"No."
A beat.
"They're desperate."
He placed a hand briefly on the child's shoulder.
Guided him back toward the stairs.
"Stay up there."
The child nodded.
And left.
Brian waited.
Listened.
Made sure.
Then turned back.
"You've got kids with you?" the man asked.
Brian didn't answer.
"That's dangerous."
"I know."
Silence.
"You can't protect them forever."
Brian's jaw tightened slightly.
"I don't intend to."
The words came out colder than he felt.
"Then why keep them?" the woman asked quietly.
Brian didn't answer.
Because he didn't have one.
"You could help more people," the man continued.
"You have enough."
Brian leaned slightly closer to the door.
"No," he said.
"They would consume everything."
"That's the point!"
"No," Brian replied calmly.
"That is the problem."
Silence stretched.
Then the tone shifted.
Less pleading.
More tense.
"You think you can stay up there forever?"
Brian didn't respond.
"People are watching you."
That, he believed.
"I am aware," he said.
Another pause.
"…You're going to regret this."
Brian stepped back.
"This conversation is over."
"Wait—!"
Too late.
He had already turned away.
Back on the rooftop, the rain felt heavier.
The children were watching him.
Grouped together.
Too close again.
Brian stopped a few steps away.
"You don't come downstairs," he said.
Firm.
Controlled.
"No matter what you hear."
They stayed silent.
Good.
"It's dangerous," he added.
One of them spoke quietly.
"Were they asking for food?"
Brian nodded once.
"Will you give them some?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"No."
The word felt heavier than expected.
He distributed food.
Measured.
Precise.
Routine.
Control.
When one of the younger children moved too close to the containers, Brian stepped forward automatically.
Placing himself between them and the water.
"Not that close," he said.
The child stepped back immediately.
Brian didn't explain further.
He didn't need to.
Later, alone near the edge, Brian opened his notebook.
"Day 7. External contact established."
He paused.
"Information exchange attempted. Low comprehension observed."
Another line.
"Warning issued regarding aquatic mutation."
His pen hesitated.
Then wrote:
"Children remain a liability."
He stopped.
Looked at the word.
His grip tightened slightly.
Then he added one last line.
"Protective instinct interfering with efficiency."
He stared at that sentence longer than the others.
Then closed the notebook.
The rain continued.
Relentless.
Unchanging.
But something had shifted.
The outside world had noticed him.
And it wouldn't stop.