Ash drifted lazily across the streets, clinging to Silas's hair, eyelashes, and clothes like fine gray snow. The wind carried an very unplesnt tang of salt and something dead—burnt wood, rotting fish, and the faint, metallic bite of rust. Each gust sent a fine spray of sea brin curling over the ruins, stinging his lips and the corners of his eyes.
He moved low, crouched behind a toppled wall, boots scraping over broken glass and cracked concrete. The city was quiet, but not empty. Silence was the loudest sound here, broken only by the ocasional groan of stressed metal or the distant crash of falling masonry. Somewhere beyond the haze, the poisoned sea whispered against the fractured docks.
Silas paused, letting his gaze sweep the ruins. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, windows jagged and dark like the hollow sockets of skulls. Street signs were twisted and half-buried, their warnings long forgotten. Rusted cars sat like carcasses or whatever was left of them, their frames ripped open by scavengers or collapsing walls. He could almost imagine the city breathing, the way the streets seemed to narrow, then widen, as if alive and watching.
He was hungry starving even. He hadn't eaten properly in two days. Not that it mattered—every step could mean finding something useful or stepping straight into danger. His fingers grazed the knife at his belt, then moved to a small pouch of scavenged trinkets, nothing valuable yet, but a reminder that even scraps could be traded for a meal or water.
Among the rubble, something glinted. He froze. Heart hammering, he crouched lower, brushing ash from the surface. A small box, metal and oddly precise, half-buried beneath a beam. He didn't recognize it at first. Wires curled like thin snakes around a small motor, a tiny needle protrued from the tip, and something inside it hummed faintly, so subty , as if alive.
Silas tilted his head, examining it. He didn't know what it was. Not really. But metal was precious. Blacksmiths—or anyone with hands and fire—might pay for it. It could buy a meal. Or a knife. Or a day of safety. He wiped the grime off with his sleeve, then tucked it into the folds of his coat. Heavy, promising, and dangerous if someone else saw it.
A faint sound behind him made him freeze: a sharp crunch on broken glass. Someone was moving. Silas flattened himself against the wall, pressing his back into cold concrete, listening. The other steps came again, careful but deliberate.
A man appeared, ragged, carrying a satchel patched with scraps of cloth. His eyes flicked over th debris like a hawk scanning a field, but he didn't notice Silas pressed into the shadows. Silas's throat tightened, every instinct screaming to stay silent. One wrong move—one twitch, one cough—and the scavenger would see him, and he couldn't fight like this. Not without backup. Not without strength and not like even then if he had backup and strength he only fought when he was a kid or when he saw some small animal that could be hunted for food.
The man muttered under his breath as he sifted through the debris. "…nothing here…maybe over there…" His voice was low, almost lost in the wind. Silas could hear the subtle tension in his tone, the way he flinched at every shift in the ruined city. The man was wary, just as he should be, but also desperate. Hungry. Weak. Human. Like Silas.
Silas's mind raced. Should he leave the machine and run? Risk being unarmed if the scavenger spotted him? No. He had scavenged too long for too little. That metal box was worth a day of survival—or a week if he played it right.
He waited, counting heartbeats, watching the man move ordelly, oblivious. The scavenger tossed aside a rusted tin and stepped over the debris as if nothing existed beyond his own hunger. Silas's chest heaved with silent relief. One misstep, one misplaced gaze, and he would be exposed.
Time seemed to stretch, heavy with tension. Even the ash floating in the air seemed to hang longer, as if the city itself were holding its breath. Silas shifted slightly, careful not to knock anything over, and studied the ruins around him. Rusted vehicles, walls streaked with soot, signs warning of dangers long gone… They were all remnants of a world that had ended because humans could not stop fighting. The war had left this coast a graveyard, and the survivors were the predators now.
Another step from the scavenger made him freeze again. He felt the cold bite of metal under his coat—the weight of the machine—and imagined the man seeing it, grabbing it, using it… What was it, even? Some kind of weapon? A tool? Silas didn't know, and yet he understood one thing perfectly: it was his, if he could just leave without being seen.
The man muttered again, half to himself, half into the empty street. "…worthless…" He kicked a piece of metal aside and moved further down the alley, disappearing into a haze of ash and twisted shadows.
Silas exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his muscles. One chance, one small victory, and he had it. He didn't linger. With careful steps, he slipped through the streets, keeping low, keeping hidden. Every shadow could be another scavenger. Every broken doorway could hide death.
He paused near a collapsed building, fingers brushing his coat where the metal box pressed against his chest. He let the wind wash over him, smelling the sea and ash and rust. Survival had brought him this far, and survival demanded he keep moving, keep watching, keep thinking.
Even as hunger clawed at him, even as his body ached from weeks of scavengin, even as the wind chilled him to the bone… Silas Brine had survived another encounter.
And he would survive again tomorrow.