The patter of rain against the glass was steady and unyielding, a thousand fingertips drumming on the world's coffin.Sasha stood by the tall window of the manor's second floor, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The dawn was hidden; there was no sunrise, only a curtain of heavy rain streaking the earth in silvery sheets.
The world outside was blurred, washed in grey. Trees swayed under the assault, their leaves plastered down by water. The gravel road leading out of the manor had become a shallow stream. Somewhere in the distance, thunder growled, rolling across the land like an omen.
Sasha shivered. Not just from the cold seeping through the glass, but from the weight pressing down on her chest.
The apocalypse had already stripped so much—humanity, stability, the very rhythm of ordinary life. But rain… this heavy, relentless rain… it felt different. As though the world was crying.
Behind her, quiet footsteps echoed. A warm, familiar scent followed.
Alex, in a simple grey sweater and loose pants, entered with two mugs of steaming coffee. The steam curled into the air, carrying the sharp, bitter aroma that once meant lazy weekends and safe mornings. Now, it smelled like a lifeline to normalcy.
He crossed the room and set one mug on the sill beside her.
"You're up early," he said, voice deep but gentle. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his eyes heavy with lingering sleep.
Sasha accepted the cup, fingers curling gratefully around the warmth. She took a sip, the heat anchoring her against the chill in her chest. "…The rain woke me. It's… too loud."
Alex studied her quietly. The faint light from the storm illuminated the creases of worry at the corners of her eyes. She had always been strong, practical, the pillar of their home. But in this moment, she looked fragile, as if the storm outside was unraveling something inside her.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the watery horizon. "Do you think this is it, Alex?"
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The end." She tilted her head, her voice low, almost drowned by the rain. "This storm. The blood rain before. The earthquakes. The… the virus." She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the mug. "Do you think the world is really ending?"
Alex was silent for a moment. He stepped closer, placing his free hand gently against her back. "Sasha…"
But she continued, her thoughts tumbling out like the rain itself. "Yesterday, we saw meteors crash into the earth. And before that, everything changed overnight. People turning into monsters, children with fevers awakening powers. The weather itself feels wrong. None of this is normal. None of this is survivable in the long term. And I—" Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I don't know if we can protect them all. The children, the others… Xavier, Alvin…"
Her words faltered.
For a heartbeat, only the storm answered her.
Alex set his mug aside and drew her closer, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. He pressed his forehead against the side of her head, grounding her.
"Listen to me," he said firmly. "You've always been the strongest person I know. Stronger than me, even. And you're right—what's happening isn't normal. It's terrifying. But ending?" He shook his head slowly. "No. The world doesn't end like this. Not while people like us still fight for it."
Sasha closed her eyes, leaning into him. "…But what if we can't win?"
"Then we'll fight anyway." His voice was steady, unwavering. "That's all we can do. That's all we've ever done."
Silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the relentless downpour.
The two stood in silence for a while longer, listening to the storm's endless percussion. Every flash of lightning painted the room in stark white for an instant, followed by the low rumble of thunder.
Sasha finally spoke again, softer now. "Do you think the rain is… normal? Or is it something else?"
Alex's jaw tightened. He followed her gaze to the distorted horizon. "No. It doesn't feel natural. Not after the blood rain. Not after everything else."
Her grip on the mug tightened. "…Then what's next?"
He didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
And that unknowing was the cruelest part.
That was the weight of uncertainity.
Sasha set her cup down, her shawl slipping slightly as she leaned against him. "I don't want the children to see me like this. They need strength. They need hope. If they see me afraid…"
"They'll see you human," Alex interrupted gently. "And that's not weakness."
She shook her head. "Not now. Not when everything depends on us holding it together."
He smiled softly, brushing a strand of damp hair away from her face. "You underestimate them. They already draw strength from you just by existing. From the way you fuss, the way you hold them, the way you cook—even if your cooking could be classified as a weapon."
Her lips twitched despite herself, a breath of laughter escaping. "…Alex."
He grinned, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "What? I'm being honest."
The heaviness between them eased slightly. The storm still raged, but within their small circle of warmth, it felt less overwhelming.
"Come back to bed," Alex said softly. "The rain won't stop just because you stare at it. And if the world really is ending…" His smile faded slightly, replaced by quiet gravity. "…Then I'd rather spend what time we have holding you."
Sasha's heart clenched.
She looked at him—her partner, her anchor, the man who had walked beside her through decades of life, through hardship and joy alike. If the world was ending, then yes, she thought, this was how she wanted to face it.
"Alright," she whispered.
He led her back to their room, the sound of rain following them like a dark hymn.
As they slipped beneath the covers, Sasha pressed closer, listening to the steady beat of Alex's heart against her ear. It was a reminder—fragile, human, but alive.
And in the silence of their room, with the storm raging outside, she finally allowed her eyes to close.
Her man was here; she would not worry him.
For now, this was enough.
.
.
The rain was merciless.
It battered the windows of the manor with a steady rhythm, as if it were determined to wear down the very walls themselves.
Luis sat curled up on the sofa in the living room, a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. He had been asleep until only moments ago, but the storm had wrenched him out of his dreams with its insistence. He rubbed his eyes, golden hair falling in loose strands against his pale cheek, and stared at the streaks of water racing down the glass.
The sound was too loud. Too heavy. Too much like a warning.
He exhaled, hugging the blanket tighter around himself. In the silence of the vast room, broken only by the storm's drumbeat, he almost felt swallowed.
Then, a warm presence brushed against his shoulder.
Luis startled slightly and turned.
Daniel stood behind him, a steaming mug in hand. The rich aroma of coffee rose between them, grounding and sharp. His usually sharp eyes were softened by the dim glow of the living room lamps, though there was still a furrow of thought across his brow.
"You're awake too," Daniel said quietly.
Luis gave a faint nod. "The rain. It's… impossible to ignore."
Daniel handed him the mug. "Here. Father brewed extra."
The warmth seeped into Luis's hands instantly, comforting. He lifted it, inhaling, before taking a careful sip. The bitterness spread across his tongue, strong and grounding. He murmured, "Thank you."
Daniel sat down beside him, setting his own mug on the low table. For a moment, the two just sat in silence, watching the storm crash against the world.
Finally, Daniel spoke, his tone measured. "It's unsettling."
Luis glanced at him. "The rain?"
"Yes. And more than the rain." His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at the horizon blurred beyond the glass. "Blood rain. Meteors. Earthquakes. Now this endless storm. Every sign points to a world unraveling, yet… we're still expected to live as though we can manage it."
Luis lowered his gaze, fingers tightening faintly on the mug. "…You think it's another stage of this apocalypse."
"I don't think. I know." Daniel's tone was flat, confident, but tinged with grimness. "The virus itself was never the end. It was the beginning. The zombies we've seen evolve too quickly to be explained as chance. The weather changes, the miasma Alvin mentioned, the strange energy we've all awakened to—it's all connected."
Luis's lips pressed into a thin line. He looked back at the storm, the coffee warming him from the inside even as a chill spread through his chest. "Then what does it mean for us? For humanity?"
Daniel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped around his cup. His voice grew lower, formal, as if he were addressing not just Luis, but an audience larger than them both. "It means humanity is no longer the dominant force on this planet. The balance has shifted. We've been pushed from rulers to prey. And unless something changes drastically, unless we adapt faster than we've ever adapted before… extinction is a real possibility."
The words landed heavy.
Luis looked down at the dark swirl of liquid in his cup. "Extinction."
Daniel's gaze flickered toward him, noticing the way the golden-haired youth's shoulders tightened. "I don't say it to frighten you," he said, quieter now. "I say it because it's the truth. And truth must be faced."
Luis gave a faint, rueful smile. "I'm not a child, Daniel. I know fear. I've seen death. More than I ever thought I would in my lifetime." His fingers stroked absentmindedly over the rim of the mug. "…But I still wonder what it will all look like tomorrow. What kind of world we'll wake up to, if we wake up at all."
Daniel studied him for a moment. There was something about Luis—the delicate beauty of his face, the fragility suggested by his slim frame—that made his words all the more striking. He was not naive. He was simply… enduring.
"You're right to wonder," Daniel said at last. "But wondering alone won't save us. Planning will."
Luis tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his golden eyes. "Planning?"
Daniel nodded. "The government, for instance. Or what's left of it. Do you think they'll be able to manage this crisis? To keep order?"
Luis thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "No. Even before… it was always slow. Bureaucratic. Fragile. This?" He gestured vaguely toward the storm outside. "This isn't a matter of laws or policies. It's survival. And survival isn't governed by votes."
A faint, dry smile tugged at Daniel's lips. "Precisely. Whatever remains of the government, it's already failing. The President's dead. The military is scattered. Cities are falling one after another. What we're left with will be factions, gangs, small pockets of organized power. That is what humanity will become, unless…" He trailed off.
Luis lifted a brow. "Unless what?"
Daniel's gaze hardened. "Unless people like us—those with foresight, those who can think beyond mere survival—step forward. Unless we build something that can replace what has collapsed."
Luis blinked, momentarily startled by the certainty in his tone. "Replace the government?"
"Not in name," Daniel clarified. "But in function. We have powers now. Abilities that set us apart. Xavier. Alvin. Even the children. We're not the same as we were a month ago. If the government cannot protect its people, then it falls to others to do so. And perhaps… to lead them."
Luis stared at him, the weight of his words settling. "…You speak as if you've already considered it. As if you already carry the burden."
Daniel didn't deny it. His jaw flexed slightly, his eyes on the storm. "Someone has to."
For a moment, silence fell again. The rain filled it, relentless and unforgiving.
Luis finally exhaled. "You sound… so certain. So logical. But aren't you afraid?"
Daniel looked at him, really looked at him. At the gentle defiance in Luis's posture, the vulnerability wrapped in strength. He held his gaze for a long moment before answering. "…Of course I am. Only fools aren't afraid. But fear is a tool. It sharpens the mind. It forces us to prepare."
Luis tilted his head, studying him quietly. The fire in Daniel's voice was different from Xavier's impulsive passion or Alvin's sharp arrogance. It was steadier, more controlled. But it was no less intense.
He found himself murmuring, almost unconsciously, "Then perhaps… perhaps you're the kind of person this world needs now."
Daniel blinked. His lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the softness of the statement. For a moment, the steady composure in his chest faltered.
"…Perhaps," he said finally, though his tone was quieter, less certain.
The two sat in silence again, sipping their coffee, listening to the storm.
.
.
.
Alvin stirred. His brows furrowed faintly, lashes trembling as his eyes opened to the darkness of the room. For a moment, he wasn't sure what had woken him—then the thunder cracked above, low and heavy, and he exhaled a small sigh.
Beside him, the bed shifted.
Xavier had already been awake, his eyes half-lidded but sharp, the faint tension in his shoulders betraying his alertness. The moment Alvin moved, Xavier's hand tightened around his waist. Then, in one smooth motion, he tugged the blanket higher and draped it over Alvin's bare shoulders, pulling him close until their bodies were pressed flush together.
Alvin blinked and tilted his head. "…What are you doing?"
"Holding you," Xavier said simply, his voice low, still hoarse from sleep. "You're cold."
Alvin snorted softly. "It's you who's half-naked under a thin blanket. Shouldn't I be the one covering you?"
"No," Xavier murmured, burying his face against Alvin's hair, inhaling the faint scent lingering there. "I'd rather freeze than let you feel a draft."
Alvin rolled his eyes, though there was a faint warmth blooming in his chest. "…You really have no sense of priorities."
"I do," Xavier countered lazily. His arms tightened around Alvin, as though to prove his point. "My priority is you."
Alvin went silent at that, the words striking him in a place he couldn't quite mock away. He shifted slightly, resting his forehead against Xavier's collarbone. The steady beat of the other man's heart thudded beneath his skin, a strange comfort against the storm raging outside.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the silence, relentless, as though the heavens themselves were falling apart.
Finally, Alvin muttered, "It's loud."
"Mhm." Xavier pressed a kiss to his temple. "But it's just rain. Nothing we can't handle."
Alvin's lips quirked faintly. "You sound too calm for someone who used to panic if his shirt got wet."
Xavier chuckled softly at that, his chest rumbling beneath Alvin's ear. "That was before. I didn't have you to dry me off then."
"…Shameless," Alvin muttered, though his tone lacked any bite.
"Only with you." Xavier leaned back slightly, just enough to look at him. In the faint glow filtering from the window, his red eyes gleamed, softer than Alvin had ever seen them. "Alvin… this rain, this storm, this whole apocalypse—none of it matters when you're here. You're the only constant."
Alvin stared at him for a moment, caught between exasperation and a strange ache in his chest. "…Why do you always say things like that right before I'm about to insult you?"
"Because it keeps you from insulting me too harshly."
Alvin let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."
"And you love me anyway," Xavier said without hesitation.
The audacity of it made Alvin pause—but he didn't deny it. Instead, he settled deeper against Xavier's embrace, listening to the rain as though it were a lullaby rather than a warning.
"…When I first came to this world," Alvin admitted softly, "I thought I'd be alone again. Always alone. But somehow, you keep proving me wrong." Alvin had never hidden it from anyone that he was not from this world. Especially from Xavier, but Xavier never asked him anything. Just like now.
Xavier's arms tightened instantly. "You'll never be alone again. Not while I'm alive."
There was a quiet sincerity in his voice that made Alvin's throat tighten. He wanted to scoff, to mock, to throw up his usual shield of sarcasm—but instead, he simply whispered, "…Idiot."
"Your idiot," Xavier corrected, lips brushing against Alvin's ear.
Alvin sighed, eyes fluttering closed. "…Fine. My idiot."
The rain thundered again outside, but in that room, wrapped in each other's warmth, the storm felt distant.
Xavier tilted Alvin's face upward slightly, brushing a gentle kiss across his lips. Not demanding, not heated—just soft. A reassurance, a promise.
"Sleep," Xavier murmured against his mouth. "I'll hold you through the storm."
Alvin hesitated, then allowed his body to relax fully, his sarcasm finally quiet. "…If you snore, I'll push you off the bed."
Xavier smiled faintly, closing his eyes as he nuzzled into him. "Then I'll snore quietly."
Alvin huffed out a small laugh, his own eyes slipping shut again.