56,059

Morning doesn’t feel like morning anymore. It’s just... a lighter shade of misery, wrapped in heat and the stench of stale air. There’s no sunrise worth watching, no birds to signal the start of a new day—just the slow realization that I’m still breathing when part of me wishes I wasn’t. Each breath feels heavier, like the air itself is tired of being recycled through lungs that don't see much use anymore. The kind of morning where even the light feels intrusive, like it’s shining on something that should’ve stayed hidden.

I drag myself out of the corner I slept in, joints stiff, mouth dry like I’d swallowed sandpaper and regret. My back aches from sleeping on cracked tile, but pain is just part of the routine now. A reminder that I’m still here, whether I want to be or not. My first thought isn’t food or water—it’s that damn phone. The one I lost. The one I can still picture in my head, like it’s burned into my vision, taunting me with answers I’ll never get. Answers that, deep down, I’m not sure I even wanted.

Funny how something I didn’t understand can haunt me more than the things I do. It’s easier to fear the unknown when everything known has already disappointed you. At least the unknown has the decency to keep its distance—most of the time. But that phone? That was the unknown reaching out, wrapping a hand around my throat and daring me to ask questions I wasn’t ready for.

I step outside the gas station, greeted by the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. No birds. No wind. Just me and the echo of a world that forgot how to make noise. Even my footsteps feel too loud, like I’m trespassing in a graveyard with no headstones. I pause for a moment, half-expecting some distant sound—a sign that I’m not the last echo bouncing around this wasteland. But there’s nothing. Just the hollow realization that silence has become my only constant companion.

Her chimes in the second I turn my phone back on, as reliable and unwelcome as ever. The familiarity of her voice almost feels comforting—almost. Like a joke you’ve heard too many times but still miss when it’s gone.

"Still alive. Impressive."

"You sound disappointed."

"Merely surprised. Statistically, you’re overdue for a fatal mistake."

I don’t bother responding. Sarcasm burns energy I can’t afford to waste. I load up the map she’s tracking—a much less terrifying one than the cultist’s—and start the car. The dashboard flickers for a second before settling, like even the electronics are questioning why we’re still doing this. Like the machine knows the destination doesn’t matter anymore.

The engine sputters before settling into a low growl, like even it’s tired of this journey. The road ahead is as broken as ever. Cracks spiderweb across the asphalt, weeds clawing through like they’re trying to reclaim what humanity abandoned without a fight. I wonder how long it’ll take before nature erases us completely—before even these ruins are forgotten. Before the world shrugs off the last evidence that we were ever here.

I drive in silence for a while, letting the engine’s hum fill the void where thoughts would normally fester. But it doesn’t last. It never does. The mind has a cruel way of circling back to the things you’d rather forget. Like a predator stalking the same weak spot over and over.

My mind keeps drifting back to that phone. To those dots. To the idea that maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t as alone as I thought. Or worse, that I was, and those dots were just markers of people already gone. Points on a map that no longer had beating hearts attached to them. A constellation of corpses, blinking away in a system nobody was left to monitor.

Who were they? Survivors? Victims? Or just ghosts marked by whatever tech nightmare Caelum or the cult cooked up? Was I looking at the last blips of humanity, or just the remnants of a system still pretending to function? Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe I’m better off not knowing. But knowing that I’ll never know—that’s the part that gnaws at me.

I grip the wheel tighter. It doesn’t matter now. It’s gone. Buried. But paranoia isn’t something you can switch off—not when it’s the only thing keeping you alive. Not when it’s the only companion that sticks around longer than a battery life. And unlike Her, paranoia doesn’t have an off button.

"Heart rate elevated. You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"

"You monitoring my pulse now?"

"You gave me access, remember? Said it would be 'useful.'"

Past me was an idiot. Present me isn’t much better. Future me probably won’t get the chance to improve. The cycle of stupidity continues.

Hours pass. The sun climbs higher, turning the car into an oven on wheels. Sweat drips down my neck, sticking my shirt to my skin. Every breath feels like I’m inhaling heat. The air tastes stale, like it’s already been breathed by a thousand dying men. I spot the occasional corpse of a town in the distance—buildings sagging, windows hollowed out like empty eye sockets. Places where life used to pretend it was permanent. Places where hope probably died long before the people did. I wonder if anyone else ever made these drives, thinking they’d find something different over the next hill. Thinking there was still a future waiting for them.

Every shadow feels like it’s watching me. Every gust of wind feels like a whisper I can’t quite hear. When the map glitches for a second, I feel my chest tighten. It’s nothing—just old data trying to load. But for a heartbeat, I wonder if I’m being watched again. If something out there remembers me better than I remember myself. If the dots I saw are still out there, shifting in ways I’ll never see again.

Eventually, the road starts to curve—and then it just... stops.

A wall of collapsed buildings and twisted metal greets me like a dead end designed by a sadist. A monument to the fact that forward isn’t always an option. The universe’s way of telling me I’ve gone far enough. Or maybe daring me to find another way through.

I kill the engine and step out, wiping sweat from my forehead with a sleeve that’s seen better days. The heat hits harder without the illusion of movement. Without the lie that progress was being made.

"Tell me you’ve got a way around this."

Her doesn’t answer immediately. Which is never a good sign. The silence between us stretches longer than I’d like. Long enough for doubt to settle in and start unpacking its bags.

"The downloaded map is rather outdated. I’ll need time to process a new route."

"How much time?"

"An hour. Maybe two. Assuming no further interruptions."

I scan the horizon. Too open. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like bait. The kind that makes you wish for noise, even if it’s gunfire. At least gunfire means you’re still part of the story.

"Yeah... because nothing ever goes wrong when I'm standing still."

I lean against the car, rifle within arm’s reach, eyes locked on the ruins ahead. Every creak of metal in the distance sets my nerves on edge. I try to steady my breathing, but the weight in my chest doesn’t budge. It never does. It’s a permanent resident now.

The worst part isn’t knowing something could happen.

It’s knowing that when it does, I’ll almost be relieved.

Because at least then, I won’t be alone with my thoughts.

And sometimes, that feels like the real threat. The one you can't outrun. The one that’s always a step ahead, waiting for you to sit still long enough to catch up.