Am I dead?

The thought flickers weakly in Shinichi's mind. The air is thick with dust, clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He coughs, the sound harsh and grating, and spits out a mouthful of metallic-tasting blood. His tongue feels heavy, his lips cracked and dry. The taste of iron lingers, sharp and nauseating, as he tries to steady himself.

His chest heaves, each breath a struggle, as if the air itself is fighting him. He blinks rapidly, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Shapes blur and twist—jagged edges of broken equipment, the jagged remains of the ceiling, the faint glow of flickering lights. His head throbs, a dull, insistent ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

No. Not dead. Not yet.

His left arm screams in protest as he shifts, radiating from his shoulder down to his fingertips. He glances at it, wincing. The sleeve of his suit is torn, the fabric soaked with blood and dirt. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and a sharp crack echoes through the silence, followed by a wave of agony that makes him grit his teeth.

"Still works," he mutters under his breath, his voice hoarse and barely audible. The words feel strange on his tongue, too loud in the eerie quiet of the ruined newsroom. He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choked, bitter sound.

The world sharpens around him, details snapping into focus. The newsroom—once sleek and modern, a testament to progress and ambition—is now a carcass of mangled steel and glittering glass teeth. The air smells of burnt plastic and something acrid, like melted wires. The overhead lights sway precariously, their flickering glow casting long, jagged shadows across the debris. Shinichi's eyes dart to the wall where awards and accolades once hung proudly. Now, the plaques dangle like broken teeth, their polished surfaces cracked and smeared with soot.

He pushes himself up, his palms scraping against jagged concrete. His suit, once crisp, is a ruin of shredded fabric, sticky with blood and sweat. He catches his reflection in the spiderwebbed remains of a monitor—pale face streaked with grime, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wild, hollow.

God. I look like hell.

A sharp crack echoes—his knee buckling as he stands. He hisses, teeth clenched.

Then—

A groan.

Shinichi's head snaps up. Pulse jackhammering in his throat.

No. No no no—

"Conner?" His voice cracks. No answer. Just the creak of settling wreckage, the drip of something leaking.

He staggers forward, legs trembling. His foot snags on a twisted keyboard, sending him lurching—

Fuck—!

He catches himself on a speared metal beam, the edge slicing deep into his palm. Blood wells, hot and slick. He barely feels it.

"Conner!" Louder now, desperate.

Another groan—closer. To the left.

Shinichi stumbles toward it, kicking aside debris. A shattered desk. A chair snapped in half. Then—

There.

Shinichi crashes to his knees beside Conner, trembling hands seizing the man's jacket.

Please.

"Conner!" He manages. He shakes him—once, twice—hard enough that Conner's head lolls before he jerks it back with a snarl. "Open your damn eyes, you bastard!"

Conner rolls onto his side with a hiss, one hand clawing at the debris-strewn floor. His face is bloodless under the stuttering emergency lights, the gash on his forehead leaking a slow, stubborn trickle of red. Dust cakes his stubble, grime smeared across his cheek like war paint.

"The hell…" Conner's voice is gravel in a rusted tin. His gray-blue eyes flicker open—sharp even now, even like this. "Was that an explosion? Or was it them damn earthquakes again?"

Shinichi's breath punches out of him in something too shaky to be a laugh. " Who knows. Can't believe you're still alive."

Conner's grin is all teeth. "Disappointed?"

"Ecstatic," Shinichi spits, scanning the wreckage over his shoulder.

What the hell happened here?

His mind races, replaying the last clear memory before the world exploded—the hum of fluorescent lights, the click of keyboards, the stale coffee stench of the newsroom. Then—

—screaming. Shattering glass. The floor dropping out from under him.

Is everyone else dead?

"You remember anything?" Shinichi demands, dragging Conner upright with a grunt.

Conner's fingers dig into Shinichi's forearm, steadying himself. "Yeah. You owe me twenty bucks."

"Fuck you."

"Not your type, sweetheart." Conner staggers, then braces against a shattered desk. His breath comes in shallow hitches, but his smirk doesn't waver. "Seriously though—somebody bomb us?"

It couldn't have been that...

"If they did, they did a half-assed job," he mutters, kicking aside a chunk of ceiling tile. "We're still breathing."

A creak from somewhere.

Both freeze.

Shinichi's head whips toward the shifting shadow. A figure stumbles into view—Nelson, the young analyst, looking like he's been put through a woodchipper. His usually crisp button-up hangs off one shoulder, soaked through with something dark at the ribs. His glasses sit crooked, one lens webbed with cracks, the other reflecting the dying firelight like a fractured halo.

Oh, fantastic. The human calculator's still ticking.

"Nelson?" Shinichi's voice is a blade.

The kid flinches like he's been shot. His hazel eyes dart—rabbit-fast, skittish—landing anywhere but Shinichi's face. "I—I don't—"

Shinichi is on him in three strides. His boot crunches down on a shattered monitor, glass cracking under his weight as he grabs Nelson by the collar and yanks him up until their noses almost touch.

"You swore to me," Shinichi snarls, "on your pretty little data models, that this area was stable. No fault lines. No seismic risk. Remember that?" He shakes him once, hard. "Remember fucking promising?"

Nelson's throat bobs. "It—it was stable! The readings were clean, I triple-checked—"

"Then explain this!" Shinichi jerks his chin toward the ruins, the fires, the goddamn skyline that shouldn't exist. "Because this doesn't look like 'stable' to me!"

Behind him, Conner lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Shin. Ease up before you give the kid a heart attack."

Shinichi ignores him. His grip tightens. "Well?"

Nelson's fingers scrabble at Shinichi's wrist. "I don't know! Maybe—maybe it's some kind of anomaly, a localized—"

"Anomaly?" Shinichi barks a laugh. "You think?" He shoves Nelson back, sending him stumbling into a half-collapsed desk. The kid catches himself, palms slapping against the surface, his glasses nearly sliding off his face.

"Look at that," Shinichi jabs a finger toward the horizon. " If anything, that's an 'anomaly.'"

Nelson turns.

And sighs.

It looms in the distance, a jagged black scar splitting the world in half. The last streaks of sunlight bleed across its surface, catching on the uneven texture—like something clawed its way up from the earth and just… stopped. The clouds coil around it, thick and unmoving, as if the sky itself is afraid to touch it.

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"Well," Nelson exhales, adjusting his cracked glasses. "If anything was gonna stay the same, of course it'd be this eyesore." His voice is flat, but his knuckles whiten where they grip the desk.

Shinichi's laugh is a broken thing. "Natural? Right?" He kicks another chunk of concrete, sending it skittering. "Tell me, genius—what part of that looks natural to you?" He spreads his arms wide, voice rising. "What part of any of this is right? There's definitely a whole fucking world out there, and we're stuck behind—"

"Sir." Nelson's interruption is quiet. He pushes his glasses up, the cracked lens distorting his tired eyes. "Maybe it's... something else."

"Maybe?" Shinichi is in his face before the word finishes echoing, close enough to see the sweat beading along Nelson's hairline. "You sold me on this location. You swore the data was clean. Now people are dead, and you're giving me maybes?"

His vision tunnels. The rubble, the Wall—it all blurs...

"Not real," he mutters, fingers tangling in his own hair. "Can't be. I didn't—" He takes a second to steady himself unsuccessfully. "I didn't burn my life down for this."

A wet cough. Conner spits blood onto the concrete and grins up at him. "Dramatic."

The sound snaps Shinichi back. He blinks—once, twice—then barks a laugh so harsh it hurts his throat. "Yeah? Watch this." He drops to his knees beside Conner, hands fisting in the cameraman's jacket. "Listen up, you stubborn son of a bitch. I need you to find a camera. Anything that still works."

Conner raises an eyebrow. "Priorities, boss?"

"Money," Shinichi says.

Nelson chokes from behind them. "The hell are you—"

"No no no," Shinichi whirls, finger jabbing the air between them. "You killed everyone quiet. The adults are talking now."

Conner blinks up at him. "Man...what's gotten into you?"

Shinichi moves to one knee, getting nose-to-nose with his cameraman. The smile that twists his lips doesn't reach his eyes—those remain wild, desperate. "Think about it," he whispers, fingers digging into Conner's shoulders hard enough to bruise. "First footage of the Wall? Of whatever caused this?" A hysterical laugh bubbles up. "We'll be set for life."

Somewhere in the ruins, metal groans. The scent of burning insulation stings their nostrils.

Conner's face does something complicated—disbelief warring with dawning understanding. "You're joking." It's not a question.

"Dead serious." Shinichi says. "This is it. The proof we've been chasing for years. The reason we—" His voice cracks. "The reason we left everything behind."

A gust of wind howls through the shattered windows, carrying the scent of distant rain and something earthy.

Conner shifts, hissing as the movement pulls at his injuries. "I don't know, man..." His gaze flicks to Nelson, then back. "This feels...wrong."

Shinichi's pulse thrums in his throat. Images flash behind his eyes—network executives writing checks, press conferences, his father's disapproving glare from the front row. "Because if we don't," he breathes, "who will?"

Silence. The kind that sits heavy in your lungs.

Then Conner exhales sharply through his nose. "Alright." He reaches up, gripping Shinichi's forearm with surprising strength. "But if we die out there? I'm haunting your ass first."

Shinichi's laugh is all teeth. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Behind them, Nelson makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "We're all going to die."

"Not today," Shinichi says, hauling Conner upright. The cameraman sways, but stays standing. "Today? We get rich."

The Wall looms in the distance, its surface drinking in the last bloody streaks of sunset.

"Let's move."

... …

A camera lies half-buried under a slab of broken plaster, its once-polished frame now covered in dents and scratches. A crack spiderwebs across the lens, but the internal mechanisms seem intact. Conner limps toward it, favoring his left leg, his steps uneven and slow. Each movement is accompanied by a grimace, but he doesn't stop. His hands tremble as he kneels beside the camera, brushing away dust and fragments of glass.

"Come on, baby," he mutters under his breath. He flips the camera over, inspecting its base. His fingers fumble as he pulls out a spare battery from his vest pocket, its casing scuffed but functional. He slots it in with a firm click, and the camera whirs softly to life, the faint glow of its power light flickering like a dying ember.

Nearby, Shinichi watches, his own hands restless. He scoops up a handful of debris—ash, pulverized concrete—and rubs it between his palms before smearing it across his face. The grit clings to his sweat-slick skin. He spits to clear his mouth, then does it again, harder, like he's trying to purge something deeper than dust.

"Make it real," he murmurs. His reflection in a shattered window shows a man already half-ghost, pale under the grime. They need to see this. Need to feel it. Need to fucking believe.

Conner tests the camera, adjusting the focus ring. He peers through the cracked lens, the fractured glass distorting his view but still serviceable. "It's good enough," he says. He limps back to Shinichi, clutching the camera tightly, his knuckles white.

Shinichi meets him with a clap on the shoulder that lingers too long. "No turning back now," he says, voice low. "You ready?"

Conner smirks as he backs away to get a good shot. "Born ready, asshole."

Conner counts down, his voice rasping. "We're live in… five… four… three…" He mouths the final numbers, holding up two fingers, then one. The camera's red light blinks on.

Shinichi stares into the lens. For a moment, he struggles, his lips parting without words. His mind races, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic jumble. What do I say? How do I even start? He swallows hard, his throat dry, and forces himself to steady his breathing. "We interrupt your regular programming for this breaking news…" He pauses, his eyes flickering away briefly before locking back onto the camera. "Good evening, I'm Shinichi. Most of you watching probably already know who I am, so I'll… I'll skip the formalities." He forces a faint, humorless chuckle, but it comes out hollow, and he quickly falters.

He sweeps an arm toward the wreckage.

Keep it together. Just fucking hold it together.

"This?" His voice scrapes out. "This was our newsroom. Our home." A shattered monitor swings lazily on its cable behind him. "Now it's just…"

The words clot in his throat.

Gone. Like everything else.

The camera doesn't blink. The red light pulses, patient. Relentless.

Shinichi forces his chin up. "It's not just here. Almost everywhere near Nurikabe—" His gaze flicks to the wall, its silhouette cutting into the bruised sky. "—ends up like this. Quakes first. Then the silence. Then the vanishing. Young people gone without a trace, and no one knows why."

A gust of wind howls through the skeletal remains of the building.

Don't crack. Not now. Not in front of the lens.

"The experts?" He says. "They don't know shit. Just more lies wrapped in press releases."

His knees buckle. Just for a second. He catches himself, palms slamming onto his thighs, shoulders heaving.

"Fuck—" he gasps.

The camera wobbles. Conner's voice cuts through the static in Shinichi's skull: "You good?"

No.

Shinichi drags a hand down his face, smearing grime and sweat. "Yeah," he lies, pushing upright. The camera's eye stares back, unblinking.

It's just us now.

He straightens his spine. Ignores the way the world tilts.

"We're going to find the truth," he says, and this time, his voice doesn't shake. "Even if it kills us."

Behind the lens, Conner's grin is all teeth. "Attaboy."

Shinichi continues...

"They're telling people to stay back. Scientists, emergency teams—whole damn government's scrambling to 'keep us safe.'" He makes air quotes. "But—"

His words die mid-sentence.

Something moves in the distance.

His eyes catch faint movement in the distance, several dark figures coming into focus, their silhouettes blurry against the fading light. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out more details, but his thoughts interrupt him.

Probably bystanders. Maybe journalists who got here before the authorities did. We'll talk to them later…wait, where is Nelson? He shakes his head, brushing the thought aside. "Doesn't make sense," he mutters aloud.

"What doesn't?" Conner asks, tilting the camera slightly to adjust the shot.

"The sirens," Shinichi says. "The sirens. They were screaming ten minutes ago. Now?" He cocks his head, listening. "Nothing. No engines. No voices. Just... silence."

Conner shifts again, his grip tightening on the camera. "Maybe they're stuck. Roads might be blocked or something."

"Maybe," Shinichi replies, unconvinced. His gaze flickers again to the figures in the distance.

They're closer now.

A faint unease creeps up Shinichi's spine, but he shakes it off, forcing his focus back.

"Anyway," he says, brushing dirt off his tattered jacket, "let's get this over with. World's waiting for the truth, right?"

The figures in the distance don't move.

Not yet.

Conner exhales through his nose, adjusting the camera's focus with a click. "You always did love hearing yourself talk."

Shinichi opens his mouth—

—and freezes.

His pupils dilate. The color drains from his face.

"Conner." His voice is a wire pulled taut. "Behind you."

A beat. Conner's smirk falters. "Not funny, assh—"

He turns.

The silenced pistol is already leveled.

Conner's breath hitches. "No—"

The shot is muffled but final

Conner's body folds like paper. The camera tumbles, lens cracking against concrete, the frame tilting to capture Shinichi's horror in a grotesque Dutch angle.

Two more suits materialize from the shadows.

Shinichi's hands twitch at his sides—useless, empty. His pulse roars in his ears.

Move. Move. MOVE.

But his legs are stone.

The lead suit steps over Conner's body, polished shoes avoiding the spreading crimson.

Shinichi stares at the men in black suits. The world feels like it's closing in, the air thick and suffocating.Who sent them? Why now? Why Conner—

Then—

A flicker of movement.

His gaze snaps left.

Nelson stands just beyond the suits' sightline, but something is... wrong.

His face is a shattered mosaic—fractured skin barely holding together, seams glowing faintly with sickly yellow light. His smile stretches too wide, splitting cracked lips as viscous drool drips onto his ruined collar. Those eyes—god, those eyes—burn like dying stars.

Not human. Never was.

Shinichi's stomach heaves. Bile scalds his throat.

Nelson tilts his head, the motion jerky, wrong, and gives a tiny nod.

Finish it.

The camera's red light blinks up at Shinichi from the floor, still recording. Conner's final shot. His last shot.

Shinichi swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against the noose-tight fear in his throat. He turns to the lens, his reflection staring back—pale, cracked, broken.

"No one..." His voice is gravel and glass. "...knows what's happening." A tear cuts through the grime on his cheek. "But I swear—"

A suit steps into frame, raising his pistol.

"—the truth will get out."

His fists clench.

"This is your host..."

The suit's finger tightens on the trigger.

"...Shinichi..."

Nelson's grin splits wider.

"...signing—"

Click.

Black...

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