The sky cracked at dawn.
Not thunder. Not lightning. Just… cracked.
A jagged sound splitting across the sky like glass under a scream. Kale jolted awake beneath the ruined watchtower's roof, heart pounding as if something had already struck him.
He wasn't surprised anymore when the world broke in new ways.
Just tired.
He sat up, wiping cold sweat from his face. Ember was still curled in her corner, half-wrapped in a tattered blanket they'd scavenged two days ago. Her rabbit, as always, in the crook of her arm. She slept quietly. Peacefully.
Like nothing was wrong.
Like the sky hadn't just screamed.
Kale pushed himself to his feet and paced toward the open edge of the tower.
Outside, the horizon shimmered wrong. Warped, like heat haze, only colder. Tendrils of mist spiraled low to the ground — not fog, not smoke, but something else. The kind of "else" that made dungeon monsters go silent and made the air taste like copper.
His breath trembled. He didn't know whether it was the cold or the pressure building in his chest again.
He closed his eyes.
Grief hit without warning. Like a sucker punch straight to the ribs.
Moments flickered behind his eyes: his apartment's messy floor; a cold mug of coffee he never finished; the last text from his sister — "You coming over? We're making curry tonight."
He had meant to reply.
Instead, he'd woken up three hours later in a city that had turned into a dungeon.
Everything gone.
Everyone gone.
The air was too thick now. His chest too tight. His heart too loud.
He stumbled backward and slammed a fist into the concrete wall behind him. Not hard enough to break anything. Just enough to feel something.
Then again. And again.
[Thud. Thud. Thud.]
"Damn it," he whispered, teeth clenched.
He heard soft footsteps.
Turned — too fast.
Ember was watching him, her expression unreadable. Her rabbit still clutched in one hand.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, too quickly.
"Just… early morning cardio. Punch the sadness away. Great for the shoulders."
She stared.
He deflated with a sigh and slumped back down.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Well, I haven't exactly had a facial recently, kid."
"You're sad again."
"I'm always sad," he snapped — sharper than he meant.
"I just usually hide it behind sarcasm and stupid jokes. You've been here, you know the routine."
She flinched, just a little.
And he hated himself immediately.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Didn't mean to— I'm just… I didn't sign up for any of this, okay?"
"Neither did I."
He looked at her.
She sat down across from him, criss-crossed legs, eyes far older than they should be.
Kale rubbed at his face again.
He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or run until he collapsed.
But instead, he just whispered.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had a job. A life. People. I was supposed to go to my sister's place and eat dinner and complain about taxes. I was supposed to wake up the next day."
Ember was silent.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted.
"With you. With this world. With myself. I keep pretending I've got a plan, but I don't. I've been faking it so hard I think I forgot how to stop."
A long silence.
Then:
"You're doing okay."
He blinked. "What?"
"You're still here."
"That's a low bar, Ember."
"It's the only bar that matters now."
He didn't know what to say to that.
So he said nothing.