Chapter one
Ádin crept through the skeletal remains of what used to be a strip mall, his boots scuffing against debris and ash. The moon loomed massive overhead, so close it felt like it watched him. Its pale light poured over the broken buildings and glassless windows, giving everything a silver-blue glow—quiet, cold, ghostly.
He kept his hood pulled low over his head. The old black hoodie was a size too big and hung awkwardly off his frame, but it made him look forgettable, which was good. Forgettable meant alive.
He stepped around a collapsed pillar, ducking under twisted metal bars and wire, glancing at every shadow. The city's skeleton whispered under the wind, and the moonlight stretched long shadows across the cracked concrete.
He passed a scorched wooden pole with blackened corpses nailed through the wrists—five of them, some missing limbs, all stiff like charcoal statues. The air around them smelled sharp and bitter.
Don't look too long, he reminded himself.
No birds. No insects. No sound except the creak of distant ruin and the shuffle of other scavengers—eyes down, backs bent, faces hidden under cloth and shadow.
He passed a man curled against a wall, whispering to a rusted tin can like it was his child. Further ahead, two women argued in slurred tones over a cracked knife and a dried-up peach pit.
Ádin kept his mouth shut and moved quickly.
He sang under his breath, barely audible, the melody shaky but familiar:
"Night's embrace will guard your bones,
Keep your secrets, still your stones…"
It calmed him. It always did.
Up ahead, he spotted a mostly-intact structure—used to be a grocery store, probably. The sign read "Michaels' Market," but half the letters were melted away. He slipped inside through a side door with a hole torn through it, careful not to scrape the jagged metal edge.
Inside, moonlight spilled through cracks in the ceiling. Shelves lay collapsed. Everything stank of mildew and dust. He moved slowly, eyes scanning.
Something glinted.
A small, dented tin can—intact. Ádin lifted it and shook it gently. It had weight. Inside: dried beans. He blinked, stunned. Tucked under the can, a small plastic vial—only a few drops of water inside, but still sealed.
"No way," he whispered, barely believing it.
He slipped both into his pouch and backed out quickly, heart pounding. Big finds like that get you noticed.
He cut around the side of the building, heading for the exchange post near the rusted-out train cars. The area was lit by fire pits and flickering lanterns. Traders and beggars crowded close, faces shadowed, teeth flashing in grins that weren't friendly.
He found the one-eyed woman first—Iron Eye, people called her. She sat behind a rusted table, chewing something green and sour-smelling.
"What you want, kid?" she grunted.
"Food. Water," Ádin answered, standing straight.
"You ain't old enough to scavenge out here alone."
"I'm sixteen."
"So? That makes you stupid and poor."
He showed her the can and vial, holding them close.
"Ten beans for one cap," she said.
"Six beans, two drops," Ádin countered.
"You think you slick?"
"I'm hungry."
She scowled. Then she laughed.
"Fine. But you owe me if it's junk."
They made the trade. He turned, already walking, when a shout rang out.
"Hey! That little rat stiffed her!"
"Hey, HOOD-BOY!"
Ádin didn't stop to argue. He ran.
His breath rasped as he sprinted down the alley, boots clapping against stone. Behind him, footsteps pounded, voices shouted—two, maybe three of them.
He darted through broken carts and shattered glass, heart hammering.
Don't lead them to the bunker. Don't lead them to the bunker.
He pivoted left, ducked into a collapsed building, slipped out the back. The city stretched ahead in broken chunks, alley to alley, ruin to ruin. He took every sharp turn he knew, made himself small.
Eventually, their voices faded behind him.
---
He walked the last stretch to his bunker slowly, careful. No one followed.
Just before he reached the hatch—half-buried under a collapsed billboard—he saw him. The old man.
The same one. Always sitting close by, never speaking, never blinking.
Ádin paused, heartbeat still fast.
The beggar's face was covered in a rag. His hands trembled, barely visible under layers of cloth and dust. He sat with his back to the stone, looking like he'd grown out of it.
Ádin lowered his eyes.
"Sorry, old man. Not tonight."
The beggar said nothing.
Ádin ducked down to the hatch, pressed his palm against the faded sensor plate. The metal creaked, then opened with a dry, scraping sound. He climbed in, one hand still on his pouch, and shut the door behind him with a heavy clunk.
Darkness welcomed him—and the faint sound of a familiar rasp.