The last heatwave sunset bled across the skyline like a dying flame.
It had been nearly five months since the second disaster began, five blistering, airless, suffocating months. The world outside Julyah's villa had turned into a sun-scorched graveyard. Roads cracked open like overbaked loaves, houses sagged into melted ruins, and lakes vanished into bowls of dust. But tonight… tonight, the wind shifted. The heat relented.
She knew it was almost over.
Because she had seen it, again and again.
That same dream haunted her sleep: Adrian, older now, scarred but unmistakable, crouched in a narrow alley, blood soaking through his jacket. Two of his teammates lay motionless nearby. Gunfire echoed. Smoke billowed. Adrian shouted, dragging one of them out of the line of fire, his every movement weighted with guilt. That guilt never left his face.
Julyah woke with a gasp, her back pressed to the cool stone wall of her room, her breath catching like it always did. It wasn't just a nightmare.
She remembered that day.
Not because she lived it, But because she had survived it.
In that other life, in that twisted dreamscape that mirrored this broken world, she had been the one on the verge of death. Starving. Alone. Cornered by a group of desperate boys who saw her as prey. And then, out of the chaos, Adrian appeared. He didn't hesitate. He shot without blinking. Fed her without question. Gave her shelter, protection, and, without ever meaning to, a reason to live.
She owed him everything.
And now, she would return the favor.
Morning came with a cooler breeze, tinged with ash but carrying a whisper of something new. Something alive.
Julyah packed in silence. Her tactical gear clung like a second skin, faded but still functional. Her long-range rifle, cleaned, calibrated, deadly, rested against her back.
Around her wrist glowed the faint shimmer of her flower tattoo, pulsing softly with power: her magical space.
Inside it: medical kits, dried rations, clean water, extra ammo, signal jammers, solar batteries, a change of clothes, and, because she couldn't help herself, a thermos of chamomile tea and a weathered book of poetry. Adrian once teased her about being an old soul. She'd smiled then. She smiled now.
The coordinates from her dream were burned into her memory: a decaying industrial district on Toronto's edge, near the old freight yard. In her vision, she saw a crumbling clocktower, a fallen steeple, and a blood-slick alley lit by a dying neon sign: POOL HALL. Whether real or not, she'd find it.
She moved like a ghost through the wreckage of the city, boots crunching over blistered pavement. The silence was eerie, broken only by the wind rustling across burned-out storefronts and rusted scaffolding.
Finally, she reached the outcropping: jagged beams, shattered glass, the perfect sniper perch. She lay prone, adjusting the scope.
Her heart was calm. Her breath steady.
She waited.
Hours passed.
A crow cried out in the distance. The sky dimmed. And then— Movement.
Six figures emerged from the east, silhouettes framed by the broken buildings. Worn fatigues. Makeshift armor. Adrian walked in the center, tall and steady, eyes forward. He didn't look back.
Then, like ghosts, they appeared, armed scavengers, slipping from the shadows, weapons raised.
Adrian's team didn't see it coming. But Julyah did.
She fired.
One clean shot. An attacker dropped.
Another. And another.
The ambush erupted into chaos, shouts, muzzle flashes, footsteps pounding pavement, but this time, there was an unseen ally in the darkness. A ghost with perfect aim.
A sniper repaying a debt.