Day three and he still doesn't understand how this place works.
He's seen salvage crews—groups of workers heading into the deeper ruins at dawn, coming back at dusk. Sometimes they carry things. Strange objects that glow faintly or hum at frequencies he can barely hear. Artifacts, someone called them. The crews that bring artifacts back get food. Rations distributed by men with better clothes and harder eyes.
He needs food. The water is keeping him alive but his stomach is eating itself. His hands shake constantly now. His vision blurs at the edges. Three days without eating. Maybe longer—he doesn't know how long he was in the coffin.
Finds a refuse pile near where the salvage crews gather. Mostly trash—broken tools, scraps of cloth too rotted to use, empty containers. But there's food sometimes. Scraps the crew leaders throw away. He digs through it, trying not to think about what he's doing.
Finds something. Might have been bread once. Now it's hard as stone, spotted with mold. Barely edible. But it's food.
He takes it.
"Give me that."
Turns. An older man—maybe fifty, maybe thirty and just destroyed by this place. Gaunt face, wild eyes, clothes hanging off a frame that's mostly bone. He's staring at the bread in Del's hand.
"I need it," Del says.
"I need it more." The man steps closer. "Been here longer. You're new. I can tell. New people don't know yet. Give it."
"No."
"Give it."
"No."
The man's hand moves. Metal glints. A knife—makeshift, just a shard of metal wrapped in cloth at one end. But sharp enough. Pointed enough.
"Give it or I take it and you."
Del backs up. His shoulders hit rubble wall. The man advances, knife leading. Del's hands are empty except for the moldy bread. No weapon. No plan. Just—
The man lunges.
Del moves sideways. Not fast enough. The knife catches his arm—shallow cut but it burns. Blood wells up immediately, soaking through his torn sleeve.
The man comes again. Del scrambles back, trips over loose stone, catches himself. His back is against a collapsed section now—a wall that fell inward, leaning against support beams that are barely holding.
The man is breathing hard. "Just give it. Don't have to die for bread."
"Neither do you."
"Then give it."
"No."
The man's face twists. Not angry—desperate. Desperate people don't stop.
He lunges again and Del feels it—the stones shifting behind him. The weight of the collapsed wall pressing against beams that are cracked, rotting, held up by luck more than structure.
Sees it. The weakness. The single support beam that's doing most of the work, already split halfway through.
Desperate move.
He kicks it.
His heel hits the beam. Wood splinters. The beam gives way—not all at once but enough. The wall section shifts. Stones start sliding. The man's eyes go wide.
"Wait—"
The collapse is slow. Inevitable. Stones cascading down like water, the whole section folding inward. The man tries to run but his foot catches and then the rubble is on him—not burying him, just his leg, pinned under a stone the size of a man's chest.
He screams.
Del stands there, bleeding, shocked at what he just did.
The man is screaming. High-pitched, pain-raw. "Help me! Please! It's crushing—please—help—"
Del looks at the dropped food. Moldy bread lying in the dust. Looks at the man. Leg twisted wrong under the stone, blood seeping out around the edges.
Takes the food.
Also takes the knife. It's on the ground near the man's hand. Del picks it up. The man sees him do it.
"Don't—please—don't leave me—"
Del walks away.
"PLEASE—I'M SORRY—PLEASE—"
The screaming follows him. He keeps walking. Finds a space between two walls far from the sound, far from the square, far from anyone. Sits down. His arm is still bleeding but he doesn't care.
Looks at the bread. It's not even good bread. It's trash. He killed a man for trash.
Eats it anyway. Each bite tastes like ash and guilt but he forces it down. His body needs it even if his mind is screaming.
Finishes eating. The screaming has stopped. When did it stop? He doesn't know. Didn't notice.
Sits there in the dark. Hands shaking. Not from hunger anymore.
*I killed him.*
Could have helped. Could have tried to move the stone, or get someone else, or something. Didn't. Just took the food and the knife and walked away.
*I killed him for bread.*
The thought circles in his mind. Horror at what he did. Guilt that's physical, making his chest tight. Disgust at himself.
But also—quieter, underneath—another thought:
*I'm alive. I'm still alive.*
And that thought makes it worse somehow. That he's glad. That some part of him is relieved he got the food, got the knife, survived the encounter. That survival matters more than the man bleeding out under the stones.
Can't sit still. Has to see. Has to know.
Goes back.
The man is dead. Eyes open, staring at nothing. Blood pooled around his leg where the stone crushed it. Could have been the blood loss. Could have been suffocation—the weight on his chest making it impossible to breathe. Either way: dead.
Because Del kicked the beam.
Vomits. The bread comes up, half-digested, burning his throat. Vomits until there's nothing left and then dry-heaves, body trying to reject what he did even though it's too late.
Eventually stops. Sits down near the body. Not close. Just... near.
Looks at the man's face. Was he someone's father? Someone's son? Did he have a life before this place? Does anyone remember him?
Will anyone remember Del when he dies? If he even had a life before the coffin, is there anyone left who knows about it?
*I killed him.*
The guilt is crushing. Worse than the coffin. At least in the coffin he was just fighting to survive. This was—he killed someone. Made the choice. Kicked the beam knowing what would happen.
*But I'm alive.*
That thought again. Quieter. Persistent.
He stands. Leaves the body. Walks back to his corner. Sits down in the dark.
The knife is still in his hand. He looks at it. Metal shard wrapped in cloth. Not clean—there's dried blood on it from whoever the man took it from. Now it's Del's.
Survival tool. Murder weapon. Both.
He keeps it.
Sits in the dark and thinks about the man's screaming and the taste of ash and the fact that he's still breathing while the man isn't.
Thinks about who he was before the coffin and whether that person would have done this.
Can't know. That person is gone. If they ever existed.
Only this person remains. The one who kicked the beam. Who took the food. Who walked away from the screaming.
The one who's still alive.
He doesn't sleep that night. Just sits. Listening to the sounds of the ruins—distant screams, coughing, the drip of water somewhere. The knife in his hand. Blood dried on his arm.
Still alive.