Hours of wandering and the ruins all look the same.
Gray stone, collapsed walls, streets buried under rubble that shifts when he steps on it. He's seen people—figures moving in the distance, shadows between buildings—but they don't approach and he doesn't either. Doesn't know the rules here. Doesn't know if they're dangerous or desperate or both.
His throat is closing up. The thirst has gone from uncomfortable to painful to unbearable. Every swallow feels like grinding glass. His tongue is thick in his mouth.
Has to find water. Has to.
Stumbles into what might have been a square once. Open space surrounded by broken buildings. There's a well in the center—stone rim cracked but intact. People are gathered around it. Maybe a dozen. Gaunt faces, hollow eyes, clothes that might have been any color once but now are just shades of gray and brown.
He approaches slowly. Watching.
A man is at the well. Middle-aged maybe, or just worn down until he looks it. He pulls up a bucket, fills a tin container. The water is murky. Brown-gray. He drinks it anyway.
The others watch. Nobody speaks.
The man finishes drinking. Sets down the container. Wipes his mouth.
Within a minute his hands start shaking.
Two minutes and he's on his knees, coughing. Not normal coughing—wet, desperate.
Three minutes and blood is coming up. Pouring from his mouth, his nose. He convulses. Body jerking like something is trying to break out from inside.
Four minutes and he's still.
The others step around him. One woman takes the container he was using, wipes the rim on her sleeve, fills it from the well. Drinks.
Nobody looks at the body. Nobody moves it. They just... step around it. Keep drinking. Keep filling containers. Like it's normal. Like it happens all the time.
Because it does. He can see it in their faces—the resignation. They know the water is contaminated. Know it kills. Drink it anyway because there's no other option visible and thirst is worse than maybe-death.
He backs away.
Can't. Won't. There has to be another way.
The others notice him leaving. One woman—younger, maybe twenty—makes eye contact. Her eyes are peaceful. Deeply peaceful. Not drugged-peaceful or crazy-peaceful. Just... accepting. She's already decided and there's no fear left in her.
He looks away.
Searches.
The ruins are a maze. Collapsed buildings lean against each other, creating tunnels and dead ends. He climbs over rubble, squeezes through gaps. His hands are still torn from the grave and every surface he touches adds new pain. Doesn't matter. Has to find water.
Hears it before he sees it. Dripping. Trickling.
Follows the sound to a crack in what was once a wall. Water is seeping through from somewhere above—the upper city maybe, if there is an upper city, if this place has layers. The water pools in a depression in the rubble before draining away into cracks below.
He crouches. Looks at it. The water is clearer than the well. Still has a faint brown tint but not the thick murk he saw before.
Tests it. Watches the edges where insects might gather. There are flies. They're alive. Landing on the water, taking off, landing again. Not dying.
Scoops some in his cupped hands. Sniffs it. Smells like metal and stone. No rot-smell like the well.
Drinks. Small sip. Lets it sit in his mouth, tasting for anything wrong. Just metal. Sharp. Unpleasant but not deadly-unpleasant.
Swallows. Waits. Counts to sixty. His stomach doesn't cramp. His throat doesn't close. No blood.
Drinks more. Bigger sips this time. The water is cold and tastes terrible but his throat is screaming for it. He drinks until his stomach feels heavy, sloshing with each movement.
Sits back. Breathing hard. Alive. Still alive.
The light is fading. Evening maybe, or just the gray getting heavier. He needs to find somewhere to sleep before it gets dark. Needs to—
Doesn't know what he needs. Doesn't have a plan. Just: survive the day. That's all.
Goes back toward the square with the well. Doesn't know why. Just... people are there. Being near people feels less dangerous than being alone even if the people themselves might be dangerous.
The square is different now. More bodies. Three more since he left—collapsed near the well, blood dried on their faces. The living step around them. A man is sleeping curled against one of the corpses. Only space left that isn't rubble.
Others are settling for the night. Finding corners, spaces between stones. Nobody speaks. Just finding spots and lying down like animals. Some are shaking—fever, cold, withdrawal from something. Others are still. Too still. Might be dead already but nobody checks.
He finds a corner away from the well. Space between two collapsed walls. Barely big enough for him but it's enclosed on two sides. Shelter. Sort of.
Lies down. The stone is cold against his back and his torn clothes are still damp from the grave. He's shivering. Exhausted but can't sleep. His mind won't stop.
Where am I?
No answer. Just ruins. Dead city. People drinking poisoned water because there's nothing else.
What is this place?
A woman nearby is muttering. Low, constant stream of words he can't make out. Not talking to anyone. Just talking. Maybe praying. Maybe going mad. Maybe already mad.
Why can't I remember?
His name, his past, how he got here—all gone. Just empty space. He tries to force it, tries to remember *something*, anything, but there's nothing there. It's not like forgetting where you put something. It's like the shelf was never built.
A man screams somewhere in the distance. Short, sharp, cut off suddenly. Nobody in the square reacts. Someone coughs—wet, rattling. The sound goes on for a long time.
He closes his eyes. Tries to sleep.
Can't.
Opens them. The sky is darker now. Full dark coming. He can see shapes moving in the square—people shifting, settling, one person crawling toward the well on hands and knees.
Closes his eyes again.
Dreams come eventually. Fragmented. Symbols he doesn't recognize floating in darkness. Circles and lines and patterns that feel like they mean something but he can't grasp it. A voice—low, distant, speaking in murmurs he can't understand. Not words. Just... sound shaped like words.
Wakes up cold.
Full dark now. He can't see the sky anymore, just shapes around him. Breathing nearby. Someone sobbing quietly. The sound of water dripping somewhere.
His body aches. Everything hurts—hands, feet, ribs, the cut across his stomach where the coffin wood caught him. He's still shivering. Still thirsty despite drinking. Still exhausted despite sleeping.
Still nobody.
Lies there until gray light starts seeping back into the sky. Morning maybe. Or just the dark lifting slightly.
The square is quieter. Fewer people moving. One of the bodies near the well isn't a body anymore—someone already stripped it, took whatever clothes were worth taking. Left the rest.
He sits up slowly. His legs don't want to move. Everything is stiff.
Has to find food today. Water isn't enough. His stomach is empty, has been empty, probably has been empty for days before he woke up. He can feel the weakness in his limbs, the shake in his hands.
Doesn't know where to find food. Doesn't know how this place works. Doesn't know anything.
But he's alive. Still alive.
That has to be enough for now.
Stands. Legs hold. Barely.
Walks back toward the water source. Drinks again. The metal taste is familiar now. Almost comforting in its consistency.
Then back into the ruins. Looking for... what? Food? Answers? Other people who aren't dying?
Doesn't know.
Just walks.
Because staying still means thinking about being nobody in a place that kills people for drinking water, and that's worse than moving without direction.
So he moves.