The first thing Simon noticed was that people started asking the same questions differently.
It wasn't immediate. At first, it was subtle—small shifts in tone, pauses where there hadn't been any before. A nurse confirming his name twice. A doctor glancing at a clipboard longer than necessary. Nothing accusatory. Nothing overt.
Just attention.
It arrived alongside improvement. The pain in his leg dulled from sharp to heavy. His head cleared enough that the room stopped drifting at the edges. He could sit up now, with help. He could think for longer stretches without losing the thread halfway through.
That, more than anything, seemed to invite them back.
Two officers arrived late in the morning.
Not the same ones as before. These wore plain clothes, badges clipped to their belts instead of displayed openly. They waited until a nurse finished checking his vitals, until the curtain was pulled mostly closed.
"Mr. Croft," one of them said. "Mind if we ask a few more questions?"
Simon looked at them for a moment, then nodded. Saying no felt like it would cost more than it saved.
They pulled chairs closer to the bed. Not too close. Close enough.
"This won't take long," the other officer said. "We just want to clarify a few things."
Clarify was one of those words that pretended to be harmless.
They asked him to recount the day again. The morning. The café. The officers arriving. The drive. The accident.
Simon told it the same way he always had. He didn't embellish. Didn't rush. He stuck to what he knew.
When he finished, the first officer nodded slowly.
"And your relative," he said. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"
Simon hesitated—not because he was hiding anything, but because the answer felt inadequate.
"I don't remember," he said. "We didn't really talk."
"How long had you been living together?"
"A few years."
"And during that time—any arguments? Disagreements?"
"No."
The officer made a note anyway.
They asked about money. About debts. About whether Simon knew of anyone who might want his relative harmed.
"No," Simon said again. "I wouldn't know."
The second officer leaned back slightly, studying him.
"You understand," she said, "that given the circumstances, we need to be thorough."
Simon met her eyes.
"I understand," he said.
It was true. That didn't make it feel better.
When they left, the room felt altered—not emptier, exactly, but less neutral. As if something had been introduced that wouldn't leave just because the door had closed.
He rested after that, though rest came poorly. His thoughts kept circling the same points, wearing grooves into them. The closed door. The morning he hadn't paused. The fact that he had survived something other people hadn't.
Survival, he was learning, invited questions.
By afternoon, the television had shifted tone.
The anchors spoke more slowly now. The graphics were darker. Words like unprecedented and developing situation appeared with increasing frequency.
A segment replayed footage of the earthquake from a distance—buildings swaying, dust rising, people screaming just off-camera. Another showed emergency shelters filling up. Another speculated about fault lines and stress points and whether this was an isolated event.
No one sounded confident.
Simon muted it halfway through and stared out the window instead. From his angle, he could see part of the street below. Traffic moved, cautiously. People walked faster than usual, heads turning at every low sound.
Life, attempting to continue.
A nurse came by with paperwork. Discharge wouldn't be soon, she said, but it was being discussed. His injuries were serious, but stable. He nodded and signed where she pointed.
"Someone from the department may want to speak with you again," she added, carefully.
Simon didn't ask which department.
That evening, his phone was returned to him.
It felt strange in his hand—lighter than he remembered, as if it no longer belonged entirely to him. The screen lit up with notifications stacked on top of one another.
Missed calls.
Messages.
News alerts.
He didn't open most of them.
Instead, without quite deciding to, he opened a browser.
His fingers moved with familiarity, navigating to the same site as before.
The page loaded instantly.
The Great Apocalypse.
There were new chapters.
More than there should have been.
He stared at the screen, pulse quickening—not in panic, but in recognition. As if something had been waiting for him to notice.
The newest chapter title sat at the top.
Chapter Four.
Simon didn't tap it.
Not yet.
Outside, somewhere distant, a low rumble passed through the city. Not strong enough to shake anything. Not enough to send people running.
Enough to be felt.
Simon set the phone face-down on the bed.
For the first time since waking up, he was certain of one thing:
Whatever had started was not finished.
And it was no longer content to stay on the page.