The city hummed like it always had—a blend of everyday noises: distant car engines, the low murmur of conversations, the occasional ringing of a phone. The streets were busy, but not crowded. People moved with purpose, their eyes flicking nervously from one passerby to another, but never lingering long enough to meet someone's gaze. The air was thick with something unspoken, a subtle but pervasive tension that clung to everything.
Natasha stood at the edge of the crowded bus stop, the metallic stench of the city filling her lungs. There was an odd quietness in the way people interacted. No one laughed too loudly. No one spoke too freely. It was as if everyone knew something—some invisible weight pressing down on their shoulders—but none dared to voice it aloud. The noises that should have been loud—voices, music, the hum of traffic—seemed muted, even though the city itself was as alive as ever.
A few blocks away, in a café, a woman sat with her hands trembling around a cup of coffee, her eyes darting from the door to the window, as if expecting someone—or something—to appear, subconsciously she held her breath as a figure walked in, her expression became pale as if she had seen doomsday in human form.
In another part of town, an elderly man walked briskly down the sidewalk, his steps too quick for his age, his face tense with worry, though no one seemed to notice. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, briefly breaking the silence before fading again into the soft murmur of the city.
It wasn't that the city was quiet—it was too quiet.
Natasha felt it every day: the odd stillness in the air, the hushed voices that never quite reached her ears. The teachers spoke softer, the kids at school laughed less. No one spoke of it, but everyone knew—something had shifted. There was a wrongness to the air, an unsettling sense that the world was slipping slowly but surely into something different. Something dangerous.
And no one, it seemed, was brave enough to ask why.
___________________________
In a narrow alley behind the school, a group of boys hovered around another, his uniform bloodied and torn. Their shirts hung open, exposing sweat-stained white singlets, and their trousers were ripped at the knees. Cigarettes dangled from their fingers, smoke curling in the still air. They were the typical school tyrants—loud, cruel, and dangerous.
Laughter rang out as they landed another blow on the boy slumped at their feet.
"Hit him harder!" their leader barked, a wicked grin on his face.
Sarki covered his head with trembling arms, flinching with each painful stomp. His bones ached, but he held in the cry, refusing to give them the satisfaction.
Click!
A camera shutter snapped through the silence. The boys froze, their heads turning sharply.
Natasha stood at the mouth of the alley, phone in hand, examining her photo with casual confidence. Unbothered by their attention, she walked forward and stopped in front of Sarki.
"Get up," she said firmly.
Sarki blinked up at her, stunned by her boldness.
"Eh, what do you think you're doing?" one of the boys growled.
"Let's go to the school clinic," she said, ignoring him. But as she turned, a rough hand yanked her back.
"Are you deaf?" the boy snapped. "You want to die?!"
Natasha didn't flinch. "I'd quiet down if I were you. Unless you want to die faster."
"You little brat—"
He raised his hand to strike, but she was faster. Her phone came up between them.
"All it takes is one tap." Her voice was low, dangerous. "I wonder what the proprietress will say when she sees her obedient son acting like a street thug. You look good in the shots, Ola. Don't you think?"
The others hissed, and Ola's jaw tightened. He dropped his hand and slammed it against the wall instead.
Natasha turned back to Sarki. "Let's go."
Ola watched her leave, fury simmering in his eyes. If that video reached his mother, he was finished.
"You let her go?" the boss asked, still leaning against the wall.
"Looks like you like her," another boy teased.
"She's my cousin," Ola muttered.
"Ohhh, classmate and cousin? Might try my luck," someone laughed.
"Back off," Ola said, his tone suddenly cold.
"That must be the girl leaving with you. We'll have to be careful around her," the boss said. "Let's go."
---
In the school clinic...
Natasha took the first aid box from the nurse with practiced ease. As the health prefect, she had both the access and the skills.
Sarki winced as she dabbed iodine on his wound. Natasha glanced at him and put the bottle down, opting instead for spirit. He hissed again, but said nothing.
She covered the cut with plaster and packed up the supplies.
"You'll stay in pain if you keep holding back when you can defend yourself," she said, standing.
"I already have a bad record," he muttered.
"That doesn't mean you should let yourself be a punching bag. You could've died today."
"They won't kill me."
Natasha paused at the door. "Not them," she said quietly. "Phynicx will."