I don't know how long I was unconscious.
When I came back to myself, the first thing I felt was motion.
Wind rushed past my face, cold and sharp, cutting through the dust in my lungs. My head throbbed with every bump in the road. For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming until pain reminded me I wasn't.
Someone was pedaling fast.
I forced my eyes open.
The world tilted violently as we sped downhill, buildings blurring past in broken silhouettes. Smoke curled into the sky behind us. Sirens echoed somewhere far away, stretched thin and desperate.
"Ki…kiyo…Kiyoto!"
The voice snapped everything into focus.
Kazim.
He was riding my bicycle, standing on the pedals, his hands tight on the handlebars. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, eyes wide but focused. Fear was there, but so was determination.
"You collapsed," he said quickly, breathless. "Your bike was just lying in the road. I thought …"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. My vision swam.
"Don't move," Kazim said. "We need to get out of here."
Ahead of us, people were running downhill in the same direction—families, strangers, and injured survivors helping one another move. Soldiers stood at intersections, shouting directions, waving people forward.
"Bunker!" someone yelled. "This way! Move!"
The army had taken control of what little order remained.
Barricades lined the road. Burned vehicles were pushed aside to make narrow paths. Helicopters roared overhead, disappearing into the smoke toward the city center.
Kazim pedaled harder.
Another distant explosion shook the ground. I clenched my jaw, gripping the back of the seat to keep myself from falling.
We reached the bunker entrance minutes later.
It was built into the hillside with thick steel doors half-open, soldiers pulling people inside as fast as they could. No names. No questions. Just survival.
Kazim half-carried me off the bike, slinging my arm over his shoulder.
"Next!" a soldier barked.
We were pushed inside.
The doors slammed shut behind us.
Darkness swallowed the noise of the outside world.
Inside the bunker, the air was stale and heavy. Emergency lights flickered along concrete walls. People sat pressed together on the floor, some crying quietly, some staring blankly, and some clutching whatever food or belongings they had managed to save.
That's when I saw them.
The bullies from school.
They stood near one of the supply crates, bigger than they used to look in the classroom. Maybe it was the situation. Maybe it was fear turning into hunger.
Their eyes locked onto the bags in our hands.
Kazim had grabbed lunch packs when we ran. I barely remembered it.
"Hey," one of them said, stepping closer. "You guys got food?"
Kazim hesitated.
People were listening now.
"We need it," Kazim said. "He's injured."
The bully laughed.
"So are we," he said. "The difference is we're stronger."
They moved fast.
Too fast.
I stepped forward before thinking.
"Stop," I said, my voice shaking. "There's enough for everyone. The army "
A fist slammed into my stomach.
The air left my lungs in a violent rush. I collapsed to my knees, coughing, vision blurring again.
Kazim swung.
He landed one clean, desperate hit.
Then it was over. There were three of them.
They shoved Kazim into the wall. Someone kicked my side. Another grabbed the food and tore the bag open, scattering packets across the floor.
I tried to stand.
My body refused.
Pain burned through me, physical, yes, but something deeper hurt more.
I was useless.
Again.
The bullies took the food and walked away, laughing quietly, like they hadn't just beaten two people who couldn't fight back.
No one stopped them.
No one said anything.
Kazim knelt beside me, breathing hard.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
It was a lie.
As I lay there on the cold bunker floor, surrounded by survivors and silence, one thought kept repeating in my head. This world didn't care if you were right. It only cared if you were strong.
And I wasn't. Not yet.