Case 33's voice still trembled in Maria's memory, as though it had been etched into the marrow of her bones.
"I dare you to kill me," he had said.
Not shouted, not threatened—simply said. The words stunned her, pushed her into a flood of conflicting thoughts. How could he look so harmless, almost more of a friend than an enemy, and yet pose such a riddle of death? It could only be a trap. Two cases formed in her mind with merciless clarity. Case 1: If she refused, then—by Rule Three—her skull would be broken without hesitation. Case 2: If she obeyed, if she struck, perhaps he would break his own rules and kill her anyway. Which was worse? To deny and die, or to obey and still die? Or was it a test—a perverse experiment to expose the cracks in her humanity? She did not know.
The question hung in her like smoke.
But Edward was elsewhere, unaware of Maria's torment. He stood in the small, deserted mall, staring blankly at the debris of people that had laughed too loudly, too foolishly. He waited for his parents, who scavenged the rubbish left by panicked shoppers, their boots echoing in the tiled halls. Edward thought bitterly: How did all this happen? Life is laughing at us, like a drunk at a funeral.
His thoughts unraveled further, darker. Replacement. He wondered, What does it even mean? If one man is replaced, isn't it simple? Another face, another blink, another smile. Was it not as easy as replacing our old neighbor, that lonely man no one visited? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? The thoughts frightened him, but he let them run—because in silence, thinking was all that was left.
Then, suddenly, he was jolted awake by the sight of his parents. Stunned, he saw the sheer strength they carried. His father staggered under the weight of ten boxes, his face a mask of determination. His mother, delicate and radiant, carried six boxes as though her fragility were only an illusion. Edward's eyes widened. The weight of survival transformed even the weakest into giants.
"Honey, maybe you should rest," Noah said, his voice firm but tender. "You're still tired from last night."
Edward's eyes shot back at them, stunned.
Matilda's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't look at me like that, young man!"
"You're the one obsessed with your laptop," she continued, trembling. "You didn't join us in our… in our gem."
Noah placed the boxes onto the truck with a grunt, leaving his metal bar on its edge. He took his wife's boxes too, as though to shield her from even the smallest burden. "Just stay here, honey," he said to Matilda with quiet resolve. "I'll take Edie with me. And I will protect him—completely."
Matilda's lips quivered. "I think so… but haven't you heard it? That chewing sound?"
Noah turned, his arms still heavy with boxes, his breath sharp. "Relax. It's only mice. This store is old, abandoned."
Edward gripped his mother's bar, feeling the iron tremble in his hands. "Yes… and shadows can't eat. Not as we know."
Matilda's expression shifted—hurt, tender, soft as the tremor in her voice. "Good luck," she whispered.
Noah's face softened. His gaze lingered on her, full of the love that bound them through famine and terror. "See you, honey," he said, and then, with his back turned to her beauty, he whispered to Edward, his voice a blade of seriousness:
"Eddie… be ready. They're not mice. At best, animals. Big animals."
Edward swallowed hard, his heart pounding. "So… you just wanted to leave Mom in the truck. So she would be safe."
He thought silently: I wish for myself a partner as blissful as Father is caring… and as beautiful as Mother, even now, in the ruins.
They entered the store. The air was stale. Everything remained on the shelves—stacked, neat, grotesquely untouched. The silence was heavier than any noise could have been.
"Where are the others?" Edward asked. "Where are the hungry? The desperate? Why is everything still here?"
The neatness itself felt unnatural, as if someone—or something—had arranged it. Too neat, Edward thought. Too deliberate.
Noah stopped. He turned to his son, his eyes shadowed, his face drawn into grim lines. "You see, Edie… we're on our way to extinction."
The words struck like a hammer, more terrible for their calm delivery.
Edward forced a laugh—weak, trembling. "Impossible."
Noah's hand gripped his son's shoulder like iron. "Look at them. Look at how they evolve. Faster than us, stronger than us. Every hour they grow closer. "
Edward's throat tightened. His father's voice carried both despair and a fierce determination to protect him. The contradiction was unbearable: to know death is near, and still to carry boxes, to fight with iron bars, to kiss your wife, to teach your son courage.
The silence pressed in. Somewhere, faintly, the chewing sound echoed again.
And Edward thought, in that suffocating moment: Perhaps life does not laugh at us. Perhaps it only smiles too long, like the shadows.