Alice rarely stepped beyond the mansion gates.
Not because she feared the world.
But because the world had grown sharp.
Sound carried differently now—too many broken echoes, too many hollow spaces where cities once breathed. Gravel shifted beneath boots like whispered warnings. Wind through dead trees sometimes resembled the distant hiss of infected lungs. For someone who navigated life by sound, scent, and subtle tremor, the apocalypse had become a maze of distorted signals.
So when Alvin offered to take her outside that morning, his voice unusually gentle, she tilted her head in surprise.
"Fresh air," he had said lightly. "I've confirmed it doesn't bite."
She smiled faintly. "You can't confirm that."
"I can," he replied confidently. "I bullied it into submission."
And so she went.
