The first thing Ethan felt was weight. Not pain—though that came next—but a dull, suffocating pressure that sat on his chest like concrete. His eyes blinked open slowly, dry and crusted with blood and sleep. The ceiling above him was off-white, flickering slightly, like the light itself wasn't sure it belonged.

  A hospital.

  Not the sterile kind he saw in movies. This one was makeshift—metal tables pushed into corners, thin curtains separating the wounded. Somewhere nearby, someone was sobbing quietly. Another person screamed in a language Ethan didn't understand.

  He tried to move.

  Pain answered. His ribs ached, his arm was wrapped in stiff, stained bandages, and something inside his head pulsed with each heartbeat. Still, he forced himself upright, jaw clenched as he swung his legs off the side of the bed.

  That's when the soldier approached. Dressed in military fatigues, face gaunt, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, the man looked like he hadn't slept in days.

  "You're lucky to be alive," he said simply, holding a clipboard. "We found you near the university. Whatever hit that place... most didn't make it out."

  Ethan's throat was dry. "The monster...?"

  The soldier paused, uncertain. "We've stopped calling them that. Doesn't matter what they are—what matters is people are dying. Fast."

  A moment of silence. Then the soldier's tone shifted, gentler but heavier. "I'm sorry. We scanned identification records, cross-referenced with recent evac lists. Your parents... they were in Sector 7."

  Ethan blinked.

  Sector 7.

  He didn't need a map to know what that meant. He'd seen the footage. A black rift splitting the sky open, buildings pulled in like water down a drain. Screams, static, silence.

  His parents were gone.

  He should've felt rage. Or horror. Or... something. But instead, the world simply tilted. Like the ground had shifted and never told him.

  He didn't cry at first.

  He just stared at his bandaged hands, still shaking slightly. He thought about the way his father used to say, "Don't come home with a 98 when you could've gotten 100." The way his mother smiled only when other parents complimented him.

  He'd spent his whole life trying to be perfect. For them.

  And now they were gone.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Something cracked. Quietly. Deep inside.

  Tears slid down his face—silent, without permission. His shoulders trembled. He buried his face in his hands, and the sob that escaped him was raw, feral. Not from fear. Not even grief.

  From release.

  He didn't need to be perfect anymore.

  He was broken. And for the first time, he let himself be.

  Guilt followed—of course it did. He told himself he should've been stronger. Faster. Smarter. If only he'd gone home. If only he'd noticed the signs sooner. If only...

  But as the storm inside him swelled, something else broke through: silence.

  Not numbness. Acceptance.

  He would never earn their approval.

  He would never save them. And that was the truth he had to carry—not like a burden, but like a scar.

  He wiped his face with trembling fingers.

  Then the lights above him flickered again.

  He looked up, heart tightening—but it wasn't another attack. Not yet. Just the hum of unstable electricity.

  Still, something in the corner of the room moved. Not visibly. Not physically. But his fear twitched—like it remembered the dark.

  Before he could rise, the curtain pulled back. A woman stood there. Late twenties. Lean frame, worn leather jacket, and eyes like someone who'd already seen the end of the world twice and kept walking.

  "You're awake," she said. "Good."

  Ethan stared, unsure of what to make of her. He hadn't seen anyone like her. Her face was sharp, worn, like she'd lived through hell and somehow survived.

  Ava stepped closer, noticing the way his eyes darted between her and the room. She had seen that look before. She had felt that same tremor in her chest. That same lost confusion.

  She didn't need to ask. She could see it in him. He was one of them.

  "You're one of us now," she said, her voice low but steady.

  Ethan frowned, a sharp edge of confusion cutting through the fog in his mind. "What do you mean?"

  She raised a hand, slowly tapping her finger against her chest. "I felt it. Whatever woke up in you... it's the same thing that lives in me."

  Ethan didn't speak, but something shifted in him at her words. She was talking about the monsters, the terror, the power that surged through him after he fought back—something primal, dark, and unexplainable.

  Ava's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. "It starts with pain. Then fear. Then something worse—realization. That the world isn't going back to normal. That you're not going back to normal."

  She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her stance was easy, but something about it felt forced—like every move came with the weight of years spent fighting, pushing past the hurt.

  "I don't know what you saw when it came for you. I don't need to. If it didn't kill you... it changed you."

  Her eyes locked with his. A shared understanding passed between them, something more than just the words. It was recognition.

  And then she said it again. "You're one of us."

  Ethan's throat was dry. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. He wanted to lash out—anger, confusion, frustration—but something inside him felt strangely calm, like her words were starting to make sense in a world that had turned upside down.

  Ava's voice softened, just a little. "You'll learn to survive with it. Or you'll let it destroy you."

  She pushed off the wall and turned toward the door.

  "I'll give you some time to think about it," she said, her voice steady, though a faint tremor in her eyes betrayed her. She had once been where he was.

  And then she left, the door clicking shut behind her.

  perfect, and now that his parents are gone, that whole identity kind of crumbles. It’s not clean or dramatic—it’s messy, quiet, and personal. And I wanted that. I wanted him to break in a way that felt real.

  see something in each other, even if they don’t have words for it yet.