The city is a corpse.
That's the first thought that strikes me as I cross the broken highway, my boots crunching through gravel and shattered glass. The skyline stretches wide in the distance, jagged towers jutting upward like the ribs of something long dead. Gray clouds smear the sky, bruised and heavy, casting everything below into a half-light that makes the ruins seem endless.
My breath fogs faintly in the morning chill. I taste dust on my tongue, bitter and sharp. The air smells like rust and damp concrete, the kind of air that clings to your clothes and your skin until it feels like part of you. I pull my hoodie tighter around my shoulders, though it does little against the gnawing emptiness in my chest.
No people. No animals. Not even the distant call of a bird.
Just silence.
And silence in a place like this is wrong.
I shift the straps of my backpack higher on my shoulders, though it's light—too light. There's barely anything left inside. A cracked canteen with a mouthful of water. A knife so dull it's more like a piece of scrap metal than a weapon. A lighter with only a few sparks left in it. That's all.
My stomach growls, hollow and sharp, echoing louder than my footsteps. I press a hand against it as if I can quiet it, as if the hunger isn't something alive inside me now, gnawing and patient. I keep walking.
Every ruined street looks the same—cars rusted down to skeletons, windows shattered, doors hanging open as though their owners fled and never returned. Buildings tilt at odd angles, some half-collapsed, others leaning like drunks against each other.
It's wrong to call it abandoned. Abandoned means empty. This place isn't empty. Not really.
A sound reaches me as I pass beneath a streetlight bent double like a broken arm. A scrape. Soft. Like claws dragging across stone.
I freeze.
The sound comes again, closer this time. I can't see anything, but I feel it—the weight of eyes on me, the way the air seems to shift, as if holding its breath.
My pulse quickens. Every instinct tells me to run, but my legs feel like lead. The knife in my hand offers little comfort; it's a feeble talisman against the unknown.
A figure emerges from behind a rusted-out van. Not a person.
It moves on too many legs. Limbs splay outward like broken scissors, jointed wrong. Mandibles click together, sharp and wet. Its body is covered in a shell as black as oil, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
A Scuttler.
I've heard stories. I never wanted to see one.
It pauses, antennae twitching in the air, tasting it. My pulse hammers so hard I'm sure it can hear me.
And then it moves.
Fast.
It surges forward, claws scraping across asphalt, and I bolt. My legs move before my mind catches up, survival tearing the hesitation away. The world narrows into a blur of gray concrete and black shadow, my breath burning in my throat.
I crash through an alley, vaulting over a pile of rubble, almost losing my footing as bricks tumble beneath me. My shoulder slams into the wall, pain flaring hot, but I don't stop. I can't. The scrape of claws grows louder, sharper, echoing from every angle.
I risk a glance back.
Its body twists unnaturally as it runs, too many legs skittering at once, mandibles dripping strands of saliva that hiss as they touch the ground. It's gaining on me.
Panic surges. My stomach lurches, hunger forgotten for the moment, replaced by the cold terror of being hunted. My fingers tighten around the knife, knuckles white. My hoodie sticks to sweat and grime, my hair matted against my forehead.
I tear down another street, searching for anything, any way up. A fire escape hangs crooked on the side of a building, one corner bent and twisted but still clinging. Salvation.
I lunge for it. My fingers catch rusted metal, slick with rain. I haul myself upward, legs kicking against the wall, arms straining until it feels like they'll rip from their sockets. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each one stabbing at my lungs.
The Scuttler slams against the wall beneath me, claws reaching. One catches my ankle—sharp, searing pain as skin tears. I scream, kicking down, boot connecting with its face. The impact jars my whole leg.
It shrieks, mandibles snapping inches from me, but the blow knocks it back just far enough. I scramble higher, heart a wild drum in my chest, until I collapse onto the rooftop. My hands shake as I drag myself fully onto the concrete. Blood runs hot down my ankle, soaking into my sock.
Below, the Scuttler circles. Claws scratch against the wall, testing, searching for a way up. Its head tilts back, mandibles opening wide in a hiss that echoes up the empty street. It doesn't climb. Not yet.
I press my back against the rooftop ledge, curling in on myself. The city stretches endless around me—towers leaning like teeth, windows staring blank and hollow. My ankle burns. My stomach knots, empty and furious. The world feels impossibly large, and me impossibly small, just one body trembling against a sea of ruins.
The silence returns, heavier now. I want to believe I've escaped. That I'm safe for at least a few hours. But the wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, sticky and wet under my hoodie. And in the stillness, I know the truth:
The city isn't empty. It's waiting. And I've only just entered it.
The rooftop gravel crunches under me as I drag myself to the far corner, away from the edge. I can still hear the Scuttler pacing below, its claws scratching against the wall, a reminder that I'm only alive because it hasn't figured out how to climb. Not yet.
I peel back the edge of my hoodie and check my ankle. The gash isn't deep, but the skin is shredded and the blood keeps welling. My fingers shake as I press the fabric of my sleeve against it, hissing through my teeth at the sting. I can't afford to leave a trail. If one of them caught my scent…
My throat tightens.
I pull my knees up and bury my face in them, breathing shallow. I want to cry, but I don't. Tears are wasted water.
The sun sinks lower, smearing the sky in dull red that makes the broken glass in the streets glint like scattered blood. Long shadows stretch across the ruins, and the silence deepens into something thicker, heavier, as though the whole city is holding its breath.
Hunger gnaws at me. My stomach growls, a sharp ache that twists and won't let go. I force my eyes shut, pretending I can sleep through it. Pretending I don't hear every sound carried on the wind—the distant clatter of stone, the faint chittering from alleys too far to see into, the whisper of claws somewhere below.
The city doesn't sleep.
But I do. Eventually. My body collapses into exhaustion, even as my mind thrashes against it. For a while, there's only the dark.
A sound pulls me awake. Not a scrape. Not claws. A heavy thud. It rolls through the street below, so deep I feel it vibrate through the cracked concrete beneath me. My eyes snap open, heart hammering. The night presses thick against me, the stars hidden behind bruised clouds.
Another thud. Closer this time. The Scuttler's skittering stops. Even the insects fall silent, the whole city pausing as if listening.
The air is too still. Too sharp. A third thud, heavy enough that dust shakes loose from the wall beside me.
I press myself against the rooftop, teeth clenched, hardly daring to breathe. My imagination claws at me with images I don't want: something massive moving through the streets, something that doesn't crawl but walks.
Then—silence. The city holds its breath. So do I.
Minutes pass, maybe hours. Nothing follows. But the silence feels different now. Heavier. As though something new has entered the ruins and claimed them.
I curl tighter into myself, clutching my useless knife, my eyes fixed on the empty black sky.
I came here looking for food. A chance. A way to keep living. Instead, I've stepped into a graveyard that isn't finished burying its dead. And I'm next in line.