"This has to work."
I squeezed the trigger and pressed the button, anticipating a spectacular result. I had packed this piece with every grain of ruby dust I owned—it should have fired a beam of pure radiation. Finally. The excitement gnawed at my insides, slowly tickling my mind. Perhaps I should admit that I've started to go mad in this dark, depressing room, but the only thing that mattered was that I succeeded.
I pressed the ignition button.
Nothing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"To hell with this piece of junk!" I roared, hurling it against the wall until it shattered into a hundred shards.
Breathing heavily, I nearly trashed every fucking piece of equipment in this godforsaken place. But instead of kicking the blameless table, I forced a deep breath into my lungs. I pulled on my tunic, wrapped the liripipe of my hood tightly around my face to mask the air, and headed out.
Life outside isn't much better. A sane person would have thought twice before leaving their house, no matter how depressing or worn it was—even if the walls were eating at their mind, slowly and painfully. It's a good thing I'm not particularly sane.
The city, once teeming with life, has become hollow—eerily, disturbingly silent. The stench of death reeks from every corner; it is nauseating. In the streets, the eyes that stare back at me are dead, worn out by the sheer scale of the losses we've suffered lately. People have lost their spark. Everyone is just waiting for their fate—waiting for the plague to catch them unawares.
The alarms blared once again, a mechanical scream warning people to stay in their homes. Yet, many no longer cared for the contagion or the warnings echoing through the streets. There were still plenty of fools like me—clinging to the lights of the restaurants and casinos, indifferent to when or how the plague would catch up to them. Because it always does. And it always catches those most desperate for life.
"Lucky me," I chimed, throwing my hands in the air as three sets of eyes tracked my movement.
I counted my steps until I reached a grimy food vendor. I checked my pockets before humiliating myself; I still had a few pennies. I pulled out a chair and sat, a chilling sensation making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
"Are you going to order or sit there all day?" the vendor barked at me, while the fat elbow of the man sitting next to me jostled my side.
"Give me a bowl of whatever's ready," I muttered irritated.
As he turned to prepare the slop, I stared intently at the massive man beside me, contemplating, irritated. He continued talking to his friend, his mouth full of half-chewed food.
"Lost Martha to the plague the other day," he wheezed. "She was a beautiful woman. Great body. Real shame."
His friend interrupted with a sneer. "That's all you think about—your fat stomach and women. Aren't you worried it'll catch you next, you glutton?"
"Of course not. Look at me," he laughed between greasy bites. "I could be one of the Elite. I'd wake up in no time."
His friend let out a scoff and returned to his meal.
The Elite. I'd heard the rumors of people waking up from the coma. They called them "Elite" because they supposedly came back different—stronger, perhaps, changed in ways regular people couldn't understand. But I had never met one.
There was a high chance the whole thing was nothing more than a rumor, a fairy tale designed to pacify the masses during this ordeal. A clever trick: instead of being paralyzed by the fear of infection, the people were taught to dream of coming back.
What a fool.
The vendor smashed a plate onto the wooden table, nearly spilling half the contents. "That'll be five."
I pulled out the coins, acutely aware of the eyes still watching me from the shadows.
No, not yet.
I forced a couple of spoons of the disgusting swill into my mouth. God, it was foul, but I ate it anyway. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd had a real meal. Behind me, the sound of footsteps drew closer. I tossed the money to the vendor; he snatched it out of the air with a meaty fist.
I stood and began to prowl easily between the buildings. They were massive but decaying, worn out by rust and time as if misery itself had started eating at the iron long ago. Now, they leaned in every direction, hunched over from the weight of years and anguish. A labyrinth of bridges linked them all together—a maze where a newcomer could easily lose their way, even though every route eventually bled into the same destined end.
I let out a breath, steadying my path.
Left, right, left, right. One, two, one, two.
I turned between streets and alleys as if I were dancing.
One, two, right, right.
They didn't seem foreign to this place. Their steps were practiced, knowing; they leaped from one rusted bridge to the next with ease. They had been waiting—scouring the shadows for that vulnerable, stupid target.
Left. Up. One, two, three, four.
I started running, my movement more like a dance, leading them exactly where I wanted. I was headed somewhere only I knew—now that the illness had claimed the rest.
The world had begun to go dark. Their footsteps started to stumble; they slowed, gasping for air, entirely unaware that I was now watching them from above.
I waited for the perfect moment. As the leader drifted away from his pack, I dropped. I lunged, wrapping my belt around his throat and pulling until it bit into his skin. His muffled screams echoed through the cold walls, a siren song luring his friends to follow—meddling with their misplaced righteousness to save an "innocent" soul.
What stupid principles.
His neck snapped with a sickening crack. His friends skidded to a halt at the entrance of the alley, eyes wide with terror as they watched their leader's body go limp. He hit the floor with a hollow, echoing thud.
I stood over him, my breath steady as the dance reached its crescendo.
"How dare you, you little whore?" one of them screamed, his eyes dazed and wild with a mixture of grief and adrenaline. He motioned for his companion to follow, and together, they lunged at me.
I pulled the dagger from the dead body at my feet and kicked the corpse aside. Slowly, I turned toward the two remaining men—wild pigs charging blindly toward their slaughter. My lips twitched upward, a smirk I couldn't conceal. The adrenaline was sickening, surging through me until I felt high, dazed, and ecstatic.
The first man reached into the back of his tunic and unsheathed his own blade. That was when I saw it. Even in the suffocating gloom of the alley, it shone.
The key with the ruby stone.
"I knew I'd find you here," I whispered. "Victor really is oblivious."
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I had found it. I knew these filthy pigs had it. I only had to rob a stupid tavern to ensure they would hunt me down.
In the distance, the alarms continued to blare, and I launched.