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…
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"Check for those alive—anyone breathing!"
The voice cut through the wreckage like a command carved into steel.
Men in dark suits and reflective vests moved with urgency across the devastated streets. Medics. Emergency responders. Soldiers. The kind of organized chaos that only appeared when the world had already broken.
Concrete was split open. Cars lay overturned like discarded toys. Glass shimmered across the ground like scattered fragments of a ruined mirror. The air still carried that strange, lingering heaviness—as if reality itself hadn't fully settled back into place.
Bodies were everywhere.
Some covered.
Some not.
Some still.
Some… not entirely convincing as still.
A black SUV rolled to a stop near the center of the scene. The door opened, and a man stepped out slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored black suit as if this were just another appointment he didn't want to be late for.
He surveyed the destruction without expression.
But his eyes… his eyes lingered.
"Sir Ferguson," a voice called from behind.
A woman in a neat blazer and practical shoes approached quickly, tablet in hand. Her pace was controlled, but her breathing wasn't.
"Status?" Ferguson asked without looking at her.
"Multiple casualties confirmed. Structural collapse across three blocks. Medical teams are triaging survivors as we speak."
Ferguson nodded once. "And the anomaly?"
The woman hesitated for half a second.
"…Unstable. Residual effects still being reported. Intermittent spatial distortions. Some survivors are describing… 'glitching.'"
Ferguson finally turned his head slightly toward her.
"Glitching," he repeated flatly.
"Yes, sir."
He looked back at the wreckage.
"Make sure every survivor is documented. Every one."
"Yes, sir."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"And the dead?"
The woman lowered her voice. "We're still counting."
Ferguson exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Then start faster."
Near the center of the chaos, a woman screamed.
Her voice was raw—strained by pain that had long since passed the threshold of shock.
"No—no—no—please—!"
She lay on the ground beside what used to be a car. The vehicle had partially crushed her lower body. Rescue workers were carefully lifting the wreckage, metal groaning under hydraulic tools.
Her left leg was gone.
Blood had already pooled and spread into the cracks of the pavement, dark and thick, interrupted only by the frantic movement of boots and equipment.
"Stay with us!" one of the medics shouted. "You're going to be okay!"
"Don't lie to me!" she cried back, voice breaking. "I felt it—I felt it go—!"
Another worker placed a bandage tightly around what remained.
"Pressure's unstable," someone said.
"Keep her conscious!"
Her breathing was shallow, uneven.
She sobbed through clenched teeth, gripping at the arm of the medic nearest to her.
"Please… don't let me die…"
No one answered that.
Not honestly.
Sir Ferguson watched for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
His expression hadn't changed.
But something in his eyes had.
Not softness.
Not pity.
Something closer to calculation… restrained by discipline.
"Keep the perimeter controlled," he said. "I don't want civilians wandering back into this zone."
"Yes, sir."
He began walking forward, stepping over debris with measured precision.
Beside him, his secretary kept pace.
"Sir Ferguson," she said quietly, "there's something else."
He didn't slow down. "There's always something else."
"…We've begun recovery of the deceased."
That made him pause.
Just slightly.
"Proceed."
Rows of bodies were being gathered into black body bags.
Some were zipped carefully.
Some hurriedly.
Some not fully intact.
The process was methodical, almost mechanical. Label. Tag. Move. Repeat.
A medic called out numbers as another marked them down.
"Unknown male, mid-thirties. Female, early twenties. Multiple unidentified."
Kade Morrison lay among them.
Motionless.
Covered partially by a thin white sheet that had shifted during transport. His face was visible now—dust-stained, eyes closed, expression frozen in the quiet aftermath of the end.
To anyone glancing quickly, he was just another casualty.
Another name that would likely never be known.
Another life ended too early in a city that had seen too much.
A pair of workers approached his body.
One of them adjusted his gloves.
"Alright, lift on three."
They positioned themselves.
"One…"
"Two…"
"Three—"
As their hands made contact with Kade's body, the man on the right stopped.
Completely.
His grip loosened slightly.
He stared.
"…What the—"
"Hey!" his partner snapped. "Don't freeze up on me now!"
The man didn't respond.
His eyes remained locked on Kade.
"…Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"…He moved."
His partner frowned. "Don't start that. He's been declared dead."
"I'm serious."
The boss overseeing the operation stepped forward, irritated. "What are you staring at? He's dead. Get him bagged."
But the man didn't move.
"…No," he said quietly. "He just—"
Kade's body twitched.
Barely.
A subtle, unnatural shift.
Like something inside him had skipped a frame.
The man stumbled back half a step.
"—He moved again."
Now both workers froze.
The boss sighed sharply. "Medics confirmed him dead an hour ago. You're wasting time."
"I'm telling you, sir—"
"Enough."
The boss moved closer himself, clearly annoyed now. He crouched slightly, leaning in toward Kade's body.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A faint inhale.
Almost imperceptible.
The boss's expression changed.
"…Wait."
Kade's chest rose again.
Very slightly.
But unmistakably.
The boss's eyes widened.
"…Check him."
The workers immediately snapped into motion.
"Vitals!" one shouted.
A medic nearby rushed over with a portable monitor.
They placed a hand near Kade's neck.
"Pulse is faint—very faint."
"Airway!"
"Oxygen—now!"
A mask was fitted over Kade's face as quickly as possible.
The urgency shifted instantly.
What had been a recovery operation became a rescue.
"Move him!" someone shouted. "We need a stretcher!"
Sir Ferguson, who had been surveying another section of the site, turned his head slightly at the sudden spike in activity.
"What's happening over there?" he asked.
A nearby officer answered quickly. "Sir… someone just showed signs of life after being declared deceased."
Ferguson's gaze sharpened.
"…How long ago?"
"Approximately one hour."
He didn't respond immediately.
Then, simply:
"Take me there."
Kade was rushed into the emergency unit.
The atmosphere inside was controlled panic.
"Blood pressure dropping!"
"Heart rate unstable!"
"Prepare for resuscitation!"
Machines beeped rapidly as multiple hands worked in sync.
Kade's body lay still on the operating table, surrounded by medical personnel who moved with practiced urgency.
"CPR—start!"
Hands pressed rhythmically against his chest.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Clear airway!"
Nothing.
"Again!"
One.
Two.
Three.
The machine's line remained weak.
"Again!"
They continued.
Fourth attempt.
Fifth.
Sixth.
Nothing sustained.
"…We're losing him," someone said under their breath.
"Don't stop!"
Seventh attempt—
A sharp beep.
The line spiked.
A weak but steady rhythm appeared on the monitor.
"Wait—hold—hold!"
Another beep followed.
Then another.
"Heartbeat returning!"
Relief flooded the room in an instant, though no one relaxed completely.
"Keep him stabilized!"
"Oxygen levels improving."
"Get him to ICU immediately."
Kade's chest rose faintly under the mask.
He was still there.
Barely.
But there.
Sir Ferguson arrived at the hospital shortly after.
He moved through the corridors with quiet authority, his presence immediately recognized by staff who stepped aside as he passed.
"Status report," he asked.
A nurse responded quickly. "The patient who was revived is currently stable, sir. He's being transferred for further treatment."
Ferguson nodded.
"…And others?"
"Multiple admissions. Critical injuries. We're managing capacity."
He glanced toward the ICU direction.
Then paused.
Before he could proceed further—
A sudden scream echoed from one of the wards.
Sharp.
Panicked.
Not distant.
Close.
Ferguson turned sharply.
"What was that?"
Staff began moving toward the source of the noise.
Another nurse rushed past. "Code response in Ward C!"
Ferguson followed.
Inside the ward, chaos had already begun.
"Stay still!" a doctor shouted.
"Get restraints—careful!"
A young girl sat upright on the bed, eyes wide with fear… and confusion.
Her arms were stretching.
Not slightly.
Not metaphorically.
Physically elongating beyond normal human limits, bending and extending in ways that should not have been possible.
"I—I can't stop it!" she cried.
Her fingers elongated further, grasping at the bedsheets as if trying to anchor herself.
Sir Ferguson stopped at the doorway.
For the first time since the incident began…
He looked genuinely still.
"…Oh shit," he said under his breath.