I put the cruiser in drive, the tires crunching over shattered glass that glittered on the asphalt like broken stars. In the rearview mirror, the ambulance’s lights continued their silent, pointless flashing, a frantic, unheard cry for help from a rolling tomb. A cold, heavy weight settled in my gut, the kind of sorrow that had nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with a world that was fundamentally, irrevocably broken.

  I faced forward and didn't look back.

  My hands felt disconnected from my arms as they guided the wheel. Pure muscle memory. My brain, however, was doing that thing it does after a call goes completely sideways. It replayed everything in a constant, looping coroner’s inquest. A high pitched ringing had started in my ears.

  If I’d gotten there sooner. If I had seen the ambush. If I hadn’t let Jonathan get to a weapon. If I’d said the right thing.

  It was a useless, corrosive exercise that only ever ended in the same place: a pile of bodies I couldn't save. I forced the thoughts down, shoving them into a deep, dark box and slamming the lid. I focused on the rhythmic hiss of the air vents, the only sound in the dead quiet of the car. Breathe in for four, hold the wheel steady. Hold for four, check the mirrors. Out for four, stay on the goddamn road.

  The silence in the car was heavier than the bodies I had just moved.

  “You must be worried about your parents,” I said, the words feeling clumsy and loud, a clumsy attempt to fill the void.

  Kira, who had been staring out the passenger window at the blur of passing trees, glanced over. Her expression was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped her own knee. “They live outside the city. On a few acres. They should be okay.” She was trying to convince herself as much as me.

  “Okay isn’t good enough,” I heard myself say. “After we check in at the detachment and figure out what the hell is going on, we’ll take a cruiser. We’ll go check on them. Together.”

  She stared at me, her green eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something else. Gratitude, maybe. The tough as nails rookie fa?ade, the one she wore like armor, cracked for just a second. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course,” I said, turning my attention back to the road. It felt weirdly easy to say. A familiar pang, a hollowness, hit my chest. The kind of worry she was feeling, the kind that came from having people to lose… it was a foreign country to me. But I could at least be her armed escort while she visited.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice softer now, the word barely a whisper. “Okay, Elias. Thank you.” She paused, then asked quietly, “What about your family? You must have people concerned about you?”

  The question hung in the air between us. The rhythmic hiss of the vents suddenly seemed deafening. Family was a locked room in my mind, a cold case I never revisited. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, my grip tightening on the steering wheel until the plastic groaned.

  “Elias?” she prompted gently.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Don’t have anyone,” I said. The words were clipped and flat, a wall slammed down between us. The silence that followed was different. Awkward. Heavy. I could feel her staring at my profile, trying to read the story I was refusing to tell.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  I let out a long, slow breath, the air rattling in my chest. It was not her fault. She didn't know. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice still rough. “It’s just… not a story for a day like today.” I glanced at her, at the genuine, unwavering empathy on her face, and the wall cracked just enough to let a little light through. “Parents were murdered. I was four. Grew up in the system. Joined the academy. End of story.”

  The words came out in a rapid fire burst, a case file summary utterly devoid of emotion. It was the only way I knew how to say them without them choking me.

  Kira’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror that was all too familiar to me.

  “It’s why I’m a cop,” I added, my gaze turning back to the road, my voice hardening into something cold and sharp. “To make sure the receipts get paid.”

  The new silence that fell between us was heavier, but it was one of understanding. The space between us was no longer empty.

  Kira was staring intently at the empty air in front of her, her brow furrowed. “I’m bringing up my menu,” she said, her voice a quiet murmur, a deliberate change of subject. A moment later, she gasped. “It says I have a reward box.”

  A soft thump, and a turquoise box, the same kind I’d gotten, appeared in her lap.

  “Well, look at you,” I deadpanned, keeping my eyes on the road. “Santa came early.”

  She shot me a glare that could peel paint before pulling the lid open. A soft, white light filled the cab, briefly illuminating the exhaustion on her face. She reached in and pulled out… a stick. A big, gnarled walking stick that tapered to three prongs. The middle prong, longer than the other two, glowed red with magic. A floating blue label cleared things up: Rare Wizard Staff.

  Of course. A magic sword for me, a magic stick for her. We were officially LARPing the apocalypse.

  “The system gave rewards for killing them,” she thought out loud, turning the staff over in her hands. It looked absurd resting against the tactical shotgun propped between her feet. “So the monsters and the blue screens have to be connected.”

  “Maybe they’re aliens,” I said, half joking. At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out.

  The first signs of the city appeared ahead. Smoke smudged the horizon, a dirty thumbprint against a pale blue sky. Then we saw the first crashed car, its front end crumpled against a light pole. Then a dozen more. A city wide case of bad driving, or the opening act of the apocalypse. My money was on the latter.

  “Main street’s going to be a parking lot,” I muttered, more to myself than to Kira. “Going to try to get us closer via the industrial park.”

  I cranked the wheel, turning down a side street that ran parallel to the main drag. Here, the chaos was more intimate. Stores had their windows smashed, the broken glass glittering on the sidewalks like toxic confetti. A guy sprinted out of a Best Buy, a flat screen TV big enough to be a dinner table clutched in his arms.

  The world is ending, and my man is worried about his screen resolution. Priorities.

  They were not scared. They were giddy. Like it was Black Friday and all the doors had been kicked in for them. With no phones, no alarms, no cameras, society's thin veneer had peeled back to reveal the grubby, grasping bullshit underneath. It had not even taken a full day.

  Just as I thought we might have a clear path, I turned a corner and hit the brakes, the cruiser skidding to a halt with a groan of protesting tires.

  A river of abandoned cars choked the street ahead, a metal graveyard as far as I could see. Doors hung open. A child’s car seat sat empty in the back of a minivan. There was no way through.

  I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. The horn let out a pathetic, short blare that was swallowed by the sudden, oppressive quiet. We were blocked.

  Kira was already unbuckling her seatbelt, her own shotgun now resting between the seats. “We’re walking from here,” she said, her voice all business, a grim finality in her tone.