The camp didn't feel like safety. It felt like a pause — a breath held between one disaster and the next.
Junius followed Lilia through the narrow lanes between tents, the ground crunching under his boots. Each shelter was patched from scavenged fabric and bits of sheet metal, stitched together with wire and rope. The air smelled of smoke and boiled roots. Somewhere nearby, a child was crying; somewhere else, someone laughed — the sound thin, almost brittle.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard laughter.
Lilia stopped by a low canopy near the edge of the camp. "We fix the water drums in the morning," she said. "You'll help."
Junius nodded. "What do I do now?"
"Eat, sleep. Don't steal anything."
Rio stood a few steps away, spear resting across his shoulders. "And don't talk too much," he added.
Lilia shot him a look, then walked off toward the central fire.
Junius stayed where he was until she disappeared into the crowd. He let out a slow breath, scanning the camp.
They'd built it in the hollow of a half-collapsed freeway, shielded from the wind by concrete walls and old vehicles turned on their sides. Fires burned in metal drums, smoke curling upward through gaps in the ruined roof. The people moved with quiet purpose — collecting rainwater, sorting scraps, cooking whatever they'd found that day.
He saw the differences immediately. Some of them looked mostly human; others didn't. A woman with scales tracing her cheek. A boy with a single horn jutting from his temple. Ears that twitched, eyes that glimmered faintly under the firelight.
And yet, they spoke softly to one another, shared bowls of stew, traded jokes.
He sat near one of the fires, careful not to draw attention. Someone passed him a dented tin cup. The liquid inside was thin and bitter, but it was warm.
A man across from him said, "New?"
Junius nodded.
"Where from?"
"East," he lied automatically.
The man grunted, satisfied, and turned away.
That was how it worked here. People didn't press for details. Too many stories ended in silence anyway.
Later, when the fires burned lower, Lilia returned. She handed him a small strip of dried meat. "Eat," she said.
He obeyed.
Rio lingered behind her, arms folded, eyes narrow. "You sure about him?"
"No," she said simply. "But he works, he stays."
Rio gave a sharp nod and walked off, muttering something about fools and stray dogs.
When he was gone, Lilia looked at Junius again. "You're not the first to come from the city. The others didn't last. Too much air in their heads, not enough fight."
"I'm not like them."
Her gaze softened slightly. "Good. We need people who don't break."
She left him with that, vanishing into the maze of tents.
The night grew colder.
He lay down on a patch of fabric beside the fire, wrapping his arms around himself. Through the gaps in the freeway roof, the stars were faint, blurred by dust.
The camp murmured quietly in sleep — low voices, the crackle of embers, a baby's small whimper.
And underneath it all, he could hear something else.
It came from the far edge of the camp, soft and rhythmic, half-hummed. He sat up, straining to listen. The language wasn't one he knew, but the tone was unmistakable. A prayer.
He could just make out the figures — three of the changed ones, horns glinting in the dim light, standing in a circle with hands clasped.
He didn't understand the words, but he didn't need to. He knew prayers for the dead when he heard them.
His chest tightened.
He lay back down, turning his face away from the sound. The name Leo rose once in his mind before he forced it back down.
That name didn't exist here.
Only Junius.
The song faded. The fire crackled.
He closed his eyes and listened to the camp breathing — a fragile, temporary rhythm of survival.
By the time the second night came, he almost looked like he belonged.
Almost.
He'd spent the day patching barrels and dragging sheets of metal to cover broken walls. The work was simple — mechanical enough to quiet his mind for hours. His hands bled where the gloves had torn, but he didn't mind. The pain felt deserved.
Now, as dusk sank into the hollow, the camp gathered around the main fire. A pot of thin stew bubbled in its center, the smell sharp but comforting. Smoke spiraled up through the hole in the ceiling and vanished into the dim haze above.
Junius sat near the edge of the circle, arms wrapped around his knees.
Lilia was there, leaning on her rifle. Rio too, scowling as usual. A few others joined them — a boy with animal ears, a woman with a scaled jaw, an older man with skin pale as stone.
The talk was light at first: scavenging routes, the next ration haul, the strength of the fences. But as the fire burned lower, conversation shifted — slow, almost naturally — toward the thing none of them could stop circling.
The Calamity.
"What really caused it?" the boy asked, tossing a pebble into the flames. "Was it the labs?"
The scaled woman shook her head. "No lab could do that. I was there, in the outer sectors. I saw light fall from the sky like snow. No explosion, no sound. Just light."
Rio snorted. "A bomb's a bomb. The old world was full of them. Maybe someone finally pushed too far."
The old man stirred the pot with a bent spoon. "A bomb doesn't twist the living," he said quietly. "A bomb kills clean."
Lilia nodded once. "He's right. Whatever it was, it changed us."
"Changed?" the boy repeated. "You mean cursed."
A few people murmured agreement.
The scaled woman crossed her arms. "I don't feel cursed. I breathe air you can't. I heal faster than before. Maybe it wasn't a punishment. Maybe it was… correction."
"Don't talk like that," someone muttered.
"It's true," she said. "What if the world just made itself new again? What if it wanted us different?"
Rio gave a bitter laugh. "So the world wanted you with scales and me with ears? Generous."
The woman's eyes glinted. "Better than dead."
Their voices rose, overlapping. The firelight turned their faces into flickering masks — half human, half something else.
Junius sat perfectly still.
He'd thought about running when the conversation began, but his legs refused to move. Each word seemed to draw him deeper in, like the pull of gravity.
Lilia raised a hand. "Enough. Arguing doesn't change it. It happened, and we're still breathing."
The group quieted.
The boy poked the fire again. "Do you remember the light, Lilia?"
She stared into the flames. "Yes."
"What did it look like?"
"White," she said softly. "But not the kind you see. It didn't come from the sky. It came from everywhere."
Junius's stomach turned.
"It was like the world was burning inside itself," she continued. "And then everything was… still."
The fire popped loudly. Nobody spoke.
The old man cleared his throat. "My wife said she heard something before the flash. A voice."
"What kind of voice?" the boy asked.
He shrugged. "Didn't sound human, she said. More like a sound you feel in your bones. Like the earth crying."
The word hit Junius like a physical blow.
He dropped his gaze to the ground, gripping his knees tighter. The smell of smoke twisted his stomach.
Someone said, "Maybe it wasn't a bomb. Maybe it was a person."
The air seemed to stop moving.
"A person?" Rio scoffed. "No one could do that."
"You don't know that," the man said. "All it takes is one mistake. One fool acting with hubris."
Laughter rippled through the circle, but not kind laughter — nervous, deflective.
Lilia looked across the fire. "And what then? If it was a person, what would you do?"
The old man's answer came without hesitation. "Kill them. Before they ever woke up again."
The group murmured agreement.
Junius kept his head down, pretending to study the dirt. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
The boy leaned forward. "Do you remember anything, Junius? From before?"
Every eye turned toward him.
He forced a breath, steady, even. "Just the light."
They waited for more, but he gave them nothing else.
The conversation shifted again, back to food and weather. Lilia shot him a long, unreadable look but didn't speak.
When the group finally dispersed, Junius sat by the dying fire until the embers turned black.
He whispered to the empty air, "It wasn't the world crying."
His voice trembled. "It was me."
Sleep wouldn't come.
The camp had gone silent, save for the crackle of cooling embers and the low hiss of wind through the tents. Junius lay on his back, staring at the gap of stars through the freeway roof. The smoke turned them dim and yellow, like dying eyes.
He closed his own, but the stories from the fire kept replaying — the white light, the voice, the laughter when they said they'd kill the one who caused it.
He turned over, curling an arm across his face. His wrist brushed the edge of the Bracelet. Beneath the sleeve, it pulsed once — faint, patient.
"Not now," he whispered. "Please."
The light obeyed, fading into stillness.
He sat up and slipped from the tent. The air outside was colder. Fires had burned to embers, leaving the camp in a half-light of smoke and moon. He walked the perimeter quietly, each step crunching ash and gravel.
From somewhere deeper in the camp, someone murmured in sleep. Another voice — clearer — spoke behind him.
"You don't rest much, do you?"
He turned. Rio stood by a pile of scrap metal, spear in hand, eyes catching what little light there was.
"Couldn't sleep," Junius said.
Rio stepped closer. "That makes two of us. I keep wondering why you're really here."
"I told you."
"No," Rio said. "You said something. That's not the same."
Junius met his stare, steady. "You think I'm lying."
"I know you are."
For a long moment, neither moved. The wind pressed cold between them.
Then Rio lowered the spear — not in trust, but in decision. "Whatever you're hiding, Lilia might forgive it. I won't."
He turned and vanished into the shadows.
Junius stayed there, watching the dark close behind him. His pulse thudded in his ears.
He looked toward the sleeping camp — the fragile tents, the faint glow of coals, the small shapes huddled for warmth. People rebuilding a world he'd broken.
He pressed his palm over his sleeve, feeling the Bracelet's faint warmth.
If Leo ever spoke again, they'd all die.
So Junius stayed.
And Leo sank deeper, silent as ash.