Zero

The ruins are quiet in the way that never lasts. A market district once stood here—wide streets, collapsed storefronts, shattered glass ground into the dirt. Wind drags loose metal across the pavement, the sound sharp enough to carry. Somewhere above, a sign creaks on a broken hinge. Nothing moves, and that alone makes the place dangerous. Zero moves through the wreckage with practiced care. Every step is measured, every pause deliberate. He keeps to cover, favoring the shadows of leaning buildings and fallen concrete. His pack is too light. Water’s running low. Ammunition worse. He needs food, medical supplies—anything intact enough to justify the risk. He stops beside an overturned bus and listens. No roars. No wings. No obvious movement. Still, he waits. Patience keeps you alive. In