The mall rose out of the dead city like a fortress of glass and concrete, its facade cracked but still imposing. A wide plaza stretched before it, cluttered with toppled lamp posts and broken cars bleached by rain and sun. The mall's wide windows had been shattered in places, jagged teeth of glass framing dark mouths. Lucian tightened his grip on the sledgehammer over his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him as he approached.
He had decided to leave the pipe at home this time.
It wasn't bravery that pushed him forward, but necessity. If he wanted sturdier gear, food, or maybe even medicine, the mall was one of the last promising places left to scavenge.
His boots crunched against scattered debris, each step loud in the hollow silence. A strip of sunlight broke through the cloudy sky, painting the mall's double doors in dull gold. He swallowed. It looked more like the entrance to a tomb than a marketplace.
Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and faint mildew. The wide lobby opened into branching corridors and yawning staircases, shadows pooling where light should have been.
The deeper Lucian went, the more the building seemed to shift into a labyrinth. Storefronts gaped with half-emptied shelves. Tattered banners hung limp, frozen in a cheer that belonged to another world. His sense of direction faltered almost immediately. The place bent and twisted, an animal that didn't want him finding the way back out.
Every so often, a noise echoed — a distant drip of water, a faint metallic groan from the settling structure. He caught himself gripping the hammer too tightly, his cut hand throbbing inside the new gloves he'd scavenged earlier that week. He breathed slowly, steadying himself, trying not to imagine what could be hiding deeper in the dark.
The sound of voices froze him in place. At first, faint murmurs — human, not the guttural screeches of the cacophis. He followed cautiously, weaving through a corridor that opened into a food court. Tables were overturned, trays scattered like bones. The neon lights were long dead, but the skylight above leaked pale gray daylight into the cavernous space.
And there, gathered around a cluster of tables barricaded with chairs and scrap metal, were survivors. Eight of them, armed with scavenged packs, battered clothes, and the unmistakable posture of people who hadn't rested properly in weeks.
Lucian almost didn't believe it. His pulse quickened.
One of the survivors noticed him. "Who the hell is that?"
Then a familiar voice cut through the murmurs.
"Lucian?"
Adrian stepped out from the group, disbelief flashing across his tired face before giving way to joy. His dark hair was messier than ever, a yellow hoody replacing the button up he had before, his clothes ragged but intact, and his grin… it was as if the world hadn't died.
Adrian's voice rang out, too loud for the dead mall. He broke into a run before Lucian could even move, leaping over debris.
"Holy shit, man, it is you!" Adrian rushed forward without hesitation, clapping Lucian hard on the shoulder, nearly rattling the hammer from his grip.
"You bastard, I thought you were dead! Look at you! Still standing, still—well, you look like hell, but still!"
Lucian shoved him back, irritated but not entirely ungrateful. "You're still loud."
"And you're still a grump. Balance restored." Adrian's grin widened
"I thought I'd never see you again. Do you have any idea how long it's been?"
Lucian blinked, thinking hard about Adrian's words. "A week or two. Maybe. I lost track after we split."
Adrian's grin faltered. "Lucian… it's been almost a month."
The words hit harder than any monster's claw. A month? No. That couldn't be right. But when Lucian thought back — the sleepless nights, the endless blur of scavenging, fighting, running — maybe it had been that long. Alone, time had bled together until it was meaningless. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Adrian, oblivious to the weight of the revelation, kept talking, his voice bright, almost manic. "You're alive! God, you don't even know how much that means. And you—" Adrian looked him up and down, chuckling. "Still got that serious face. Damn, I missed that. I mean, you're still kind of a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass."
Lucian exhaled through his nose, a faint shake of his head. Same old Adrian. Even at the end of the world, he was impossible to shut up. Relief and irritation mixed in equal measure.
Behind Adrian, the group had gone tense at Lucian's sudden arrival. One figure in particular drew his eye — a woman standing apart, posture stiff, one hand holding the now unholstered heavy revolver at her hip.
Her hair was platinum blonde, cut into a sharp wolfcut that framed a face made striking by its indifference. Black eyeshadow framed her eyes, which were as cold and precise as the gun she carried. A black leather jacket clung to her shoulders, and her combat pants were scuffed but utilitarian, complete with strapped knee pads. The steel of her boots caught a sliver of light. She didn't move, didn't smile, didn't blink.
Adrian motioned between them, grinning nervously. "This is Sinclair. Our… leader, I guess. She doesn't like her first name, so don't bother asking. Everyone calls her Sinclair."
Her gaze flicked over Lucian like he was a puzzle piece forced into the wrong box. "And you are?"
"Lucian."
A pause. The revolver didn't lift, but the weight of it between them was clear. "You walked in here alone with nothing but that hammer?"
Lucian shifted the weapon on his shoulder. "It's worked so far." Lying through his teeth knowing damn well he hasn't even put it to use yet.
Her lips curved — not quite a smile, but the faintest edge of amusement. "Or you've just been lucky." Her tone was flat, measured, but sharp enough to cut.
"Maybe," Lucian said. He met her stare evenly.
Sinclair's eyes narrowed, flicking from Adrian to Lucian. Her finger idly spun the chamber of the revolver slightly, her stance rigid, controlled. "You vouch for him?"
"Yeah," Adrian said without hesitation. "He's a good friend."
That was enough. Sinclair holstered the revolver back at her hip, where the polished steel gleamed against her belt lined with spare bullets.
"You may trust him, but I've got my eye on you lucky."
Adrian broke the tension, clapping his hands together. "Look, it doesn't matter. He's alive, he's here, and we could use another pair of hands."
That was when another voice cut in, rough and sharp with distrust. One of the men behind Sinclair, tall and gaunt, stepped forward. "This is insane. We don't know this guy. He could lead trouble straight to us. We barely scrape by as it is, and you want to add him?"
Adrian scowled. "He's my friend."
"And that's supposed to mean anything to me?" the man snapped back. "We can't risk it."
Sinclair raised a hand, silencing him without raising her voice. "Enough." Her gaze didn't leave Lucian. "You said your name is Lucian. Why are you here?"
"Supplies. Same reason as you," he replied. Then, after a moment: "And maybe answers."
Sinclair studied him a long moment, then let her hand fall from her belt. "Then stay for now. But don't mistake this for trust."
Adrian rolled his eyes. "She's always like this. Clair here's got the best aim I've ever seen. Don't let her frostbite personality scare you off. You'll get used to it."
Sinclair's eyes narrowed. A muscle twitched near her jaw. "Don't call me that."
Lucian doubted he would. But he didn't argue.
They spoke a while longer, the survivors murmuring among themselves while Lucian and Adrian caught up. Eventually, Adrian leaned closer. "We've been talking to people. The military, even.
There's a bigger group out there, in Iron Bridge City. West side of the river, heavily fortified. They're taking people in. We're heading there soon so we were scavenging supplies and gas for the long drive."
Lucian processed that. Iron Bridge City — the name alone conjured the memory of two massive spans over a river, dividing east and west like two halves of a beating heart. If the military was really holding it, it could be the safest place left.
Adrian nudged him. "You should come with us."
The gaunt man barked out a laugh, bitter and sharp. "Are you kidding me? This is exactly what I meant! Bringing strays into our plans? He's dead weight."
Sinclair's voice sliced clean through his protest. "I said enough Misser." Her eyes flicked to Lucian again. "You'll get your say later. For now, we move forward."
Lucian adjusted the hammer strap across his shoulder. "I'll think about it. Give me a day or two."
That earned him a small nod from Sinclair. Not approval. Just acknowledgment.
The food court settled into uneasy quiet, but tension still rippled under the surface. The gaunt man kept his distance, muttering to himself. Sinclair retreated into her usual silence, watching everything with a hunter's stillness. Adrian, of course, filled the gaps with chatter — though even his optimism couldn't fully mask the heaviness in the air.
And above them all, screens flickered faintly in the corners of the food court. Virtual maps. Dead advertisements. Waiting.