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The thing about silence is—it doesn’t last. Not out here.

I’ve been leaning against the car for maybe thirty minutes, watching the ruins like they’re going to rearrange themselves if I stare hard enough. With Her still crunching satellite data in the background, probably humming some synthetic tune to herself while I stew in paranoia. Every creak of metal, every whisper of wind feels like a prelude to something worse. Out here, too much quiet is just a setup for the inevitable noise. You start imagining things—phantoms in the corners of your vision, footsteps that aren’t yours. The kind of silence that doesn’t just surround you—it gets inside your head, makes itself comfortable.

That’s when I hear it. Distant. Soft at first.

An engine.

It’s faint, but it’s getting closer. The sound cuts through the stillness like a knife, turning my simmering paranoia into full-blown alert. My heart picks up pace, each beat syncing with the hum of that engine.

I grab my rifle and crouch behind my car, peeking over the hood.

A beat-up truck rolls into view, its paint long gone, metal rusted and patched together like a scrapyard job. The engine wheezes like it could die any second, but it keeps crawling forward. In the back—three guys, armed to the teeth. Another’s driving, and there’s one more riding shotgun with binoculars glued to his face, scanning like he’s shopping for his next victim. Their faces are sunburnt, twisted with that familiar look of desperation and cruelty.

Fucking bandits.

Because of course the universe wouldn’t let me have one quiet breakdown without adding bullets to the mix. Misery loves company, and out here, that company usually comes with guns and bad intentions. I can already picture how they’ll divvy up my gear, laughing about how easy it was.

I close my right eye—just for a second.

Flashes of what’s about to happen hit me like a brick.

I see myself pinned down behind the car. Gunfire ripping through metal. One of them flanking me. Another tossing something—grenade? No, a Molotov. Flames licking at the edges of my vision. I see the car catching fire, heat pressing against my skin. I see the panic, the scramble for an exit that doesn’t exist.

I snap back to reality, heart pounding. The future isn’t set in stone, but it’s close enough to make my next moves count.

"Hey," I whisper, "how much longer?"

"Seventy-three minutes remaining. Why?"

"Company."

"Ah. The violent kind, I presume."

I don’t dignify that with a response. My focus narrows to survival. The air feels heavier now, thick with the promise of violence.

The truck slows as they spot my car. I hear shouting—can’t make out the words, but I know the tone. The "fresh meat" tone. The kind that says they’ve done this before and expect it to be easy. I bet they’re already deciding who gets my rifle.

I steady my breathing and wait. I know what’s coming. The Molotov guy will make his move soon. I can almost hear the flick of his lighter in my head.

A head pops up from the truck bed—scanning, searching, like he’s already picturing my stuff in his hands. His grin is too wide, too confident.

I close my right eye again.

Another flash.

This time, I see the exact moment he steps out, lighting the bottle with a twisted grin like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like this is just sport to him.

I count down in my head—three... two...

I pop up from cover and fire.

The bottle shatters in his hand, engulfing him in flames. His screams pierce the air, finally breaking that cursed silence. The smell of burning flesh hits a second later, thick and nauseating. He thrashes, a human torch stumbling into the dirt.

"SHOOT HIM!" one of them yells, panic lacing his voice.

Bullets slam into my car as I duck back down, metal groaning under the assault. Shards of glass and splinters of rusted steel rain down on me. I can hear one of them moving to flank, boots crunching over debris—just like before.

I close my eye again—catch a glimpse of his path. He’s too confident. Exposed for just a second when he rounds the rear bumper, thinking I’m too scared to act.

I swing out and fire—one shot to the chest. He drops instantly, the surprise still etched on his face.

Two down.

"Fuck! Y-you’re dead, asshole!" one of them shouts, but there’s a quiver in his voice now. I can hear it—the shift from predator to prey.

They keep firing, but I can hear hesitation creeping in. Good. Fear makes people sloppy. I stay low, listening to their frantic shouts, their disorganized footsteps.

Then—silence again.

That’s worse.

I peek over the hood—just in time to see the driver fumbling to start the truck back up. Cowards trying to cut their losses.

I aim for the engine block and fire until I hear the satisfying hiss of something vital giving out. Smoke billows from under the hood, black and thick. The last two bandits don’t waste time—they take off on foot, disappearing into the rubble like the rats they are. I could chase them—but I’m not suicidal. Live and let them limp away, haunted by the ghost they failed to kill.

I slump against the car, chest heaving, sweat mixing with grime. My hands are shaking, but I’m alive.

"I assume the gunfire was your doing."

"Yeah," I mutter. "Situation handled."

"Efficient, if a little messy."

I glance at the ruined truck and the bodies, the acrid scent of smoke still hanging in the air.

"Messy works."

I notice Her silence for a moment—probably calculating whether I’m about to bleed out or collapse from exhaustion.

"Route update complete. You can proceed northeast."

"Perfect timing," I say, dragging myself to my feet, every muscle protesting.

I check the bandits for anything useful—ammo, water, a half-eaten can of something unrecognizable but technically edible. One of them even had a cracked pair of binoculars—might come in handy. I stuff everything into my bag with hands that still haven’t stopped trembling.

As I load back into the car, I take one last look at the scene. The bodies. The smoke. The silence creeping back in, like it never left. The kind of silence that feels heavier now, like it’s watching me.

Silence again.

But this time, it feels earned.

I start the engine and drive, following Her directions. The road stretches ahead, indifferent to what just happened.

Another day survived.

Barely.