Lucian barely remembered the journey back. His body moved on instinct, a wounded animal crawling into its den. The streets blurred past, slick with rain, and the looming silhouettes of half-collapsed towers seemed to lean in close, whispering threats he no longer had the strength to answer. His boots thudded against cracked asphalt, the Totem's weight pressed against his chest like a second heart. He didn't look behind him. He didn't dare.
When the ruined shape of his apartment building rose ahead, something inside him cracked. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed, and yet his pace quickened. He stumbled up the stairwell, each step a war, and pushed into his apartment without even checking the hall.
The knife fell from his hand with a dull clatter. The pipe slid after it. Lucian collapsed onto the mattress, mud and blood smearing across the sheets. His last thought before blacking out was a single desperate plea: let it be enough.
Sleep swallowed him whole.
When he came to, the light had shifted. Pale sunlight leaked through the curtains, turning the dust in the air into drifting motes. For a long time he didn't move. The silence of the room pressed in on him, but for once it wasn't threatening. No screeches. No claws. No rattling vines. Only the faint whistle of wind through broken windows.
Lucian lay there for a long time, waiting for the dream to end. Waiting for the sound of pursuit, for the nightmare to begin again. But it didn't.
The Totem sat where he had dropped it, on the nightstand, its carved faces staring outward in their eternal chorus of emotion: Sorrow, Bliss, Rage, Despair, Fear. Five human masks, twisted and uncanny. And on the underside, that single eye, clean and deliberate, carved too carefully to be mistaken as decoration.
And with it came safety.
God's words returned to him: The monsters will ignore the place you call home.
For the first time since the world had fallen apart, Lucian believed it. A weight he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted from his chest. The constant tension in his shoulders, the half-paranoia that turned every shadow into an enemy, eased. He was alive. He was safe.
For now.
He let himself linger in that feeling. Only when the ache in his body pulled him back to the present did he sit up and peel himself off the mattress. His clothes stuck to him, heavy with grime and dried blood.
The next hours were a blur of survival chores he'd never had the luxury of before.
The shower sputtered and groaned when he turned the handle, coughing up a stream of lukewarm water that smelled faintly metallic.
He stepped under it before it could change its mind, peeling his clothes off with a wince as dried blood stuck to open wounds. Mud and filth streaked down his arms, washing away into the drain. He stood directly under the shower head, letting the water soak through his hair and sting the cut across his palm.
The memory of when he grabbed that jagged boulder and tore his hand on his frantic descent came back sharp, and he grimaced as he rinsed it. Alcohol finished the job, biting so hard it nearly buckled his knees.
He wrapped the wound tight in gauze, then worked his way across smaller scrapes that lined his forearms, ribs, and shins, evidence of every branch and jagged edge he had blundered through while fleeing.
He wrapped his torso and arms in gauze, knotting them tight. The bruises he left — they'd fade on their own.
Afterward, he laid his gear out on the floor. Knife, boots, pack, pipe. He worked at each one in turn with a rag dipped in water. The knife polished back to a dull gleam, though the half smooth handle showed signs of strain.
The boots, waterproof and heavy, shed the worst of the mud after some effort. The pack, frayed but intact, needed stitching along one torn strap he patched with needle and thread.
The pipe, though… he turned it over in his hands, running a thumb along the warped metal. A faint crack traced the handle, evidence of every desperate swing he had made. He turned it in his hands again and sighed. It had protected him this far, but it wouldn't last much longer. One solid hit, maybe two, and it would snap.
"I'll need something better," he muttered to himself, the empty room offering no answer.
His eyes drifted again to the Totem. Its faces remained unchanged, frozen masks carved in wood. On impulse, he picked it up. For the next few days, he carried it with him everywhere — to the kitchen, to the stairwell, even when he scavenged nearby. He whispered half-remembered words to it, nonsense chants and old prayers, waiting for some sign. Nothing.
On Saturday, frustration boiled over. He pressed both palms against its surface and simply thought the words: Protect this place.
The Totem hummed.
Outside, the distant noises he had grown used to — low groans, faint scrapes, the occasional howl — dulled to near silence.
Lucian froze, staring down at the cube in his hands. Something had changed. He didn't know what, but the realization that the Totem listened left him shaken.
He set it down on the nightstand again, almost reverently, and didn't touch it after that. If it worked, he wasn't about to risk breaking it by carrying it outside. The apartment was safe now. That was all he needed.
By Sunday, his wounds had started to fully heal. His hand still ached when he gripped the knife, but the bandage held firm. He decided to venture farther than usual, hunger pushing him toward a row of half-collapsed storefronts.
Looking around while scavenging, he stumbled on a ransacked clothing shop. Glass littered the floor, shelves overturned, mannequins shattered into headless torsos. The clothing shop gave him more than he expected.
Most of the decent clothing had been picked clean, but in the back he dug through a collapsed rack and uncovered a pair of black cargo pants. The fabric was dusty but sturdy, full of pockets and straps.
He stripped out of the shredded jeans and pulled the new pants on, tugging at the straps and pockets. Functional. Durable. He caught himself almost smiling.
When he straightened, a broken mirror leaned against the wall caught his reflection. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back.
Black hair fell across his forehead, uneven and unkempt. His brown eyes were framed by faint shadows — not the gaping hollows of starvation or madness, but the tired bruises of a man who had been running too long. His face, leaner now, sharper, still carried a youthfulness that belied his twenty-six years.
He stood there longer than he meant to, studying himself.
With the new pants and his patched pack slung over his shoulder, he stepped back into the street. The city stretched out around him, silent and waiting. He didn't know what lay beyond, or how long the fragile peace of his shelter would hold.
But for now, he had his shelter. He had a moment to himself. And for the first time since stepping into this nightmare, he had the smallest taste of peace.