In a post-apocalyptic world, you'll find four main types of people. Those who fight with all their might "the hunters." The ones who leech and exploit others "the pests." The predators, who see everyone as prey. And lastly, we have "the survivors," the resilient ones who never give up.

Everyone often fits into one category, but it's hard to determine which one Maya falls into. She's not exactly a fighter, considering leaving her room was a chore even before the apocalypse. A predator? No way—she's always been a pushover.

You might think she's a survivor, but that's laughable. She'd rather die from starvation than resort to scavenging. So, how should we categorize her? leeche? Nope.

Perhaps a new category is needed: "The Lost"—those struggling to find their place in a shattered world."

The word bounced around my mind like a stone skipping over water, stirring ripples that I couldn't quite follow. My thoughts were jagged, fragmented, and no matter how hard I tried to piece them together, the edges refused to fit. Apologizing… to who? 


Alot of people came to mind at the thought.


I sucked in a sharp breath, trying to swallow back the tears threatening to spill. Don't cry! I told myself but the knot in my throat burned, and every time I blinked, the sting behind my eyes grew worse.


I shifted against the stone wall, the cold, rough surface pressing against my back like it wanted to grind me down to nothing. My chains clinked with the movement, the sound echoing in the suffocating quiet of the room. It was mocking, almost—like even the chains knew how useless it was to fight. My wrists burned with each tiny shift, the raw skin stinging where the metal bit into it.


Chapter 68 - CHAPTER 68