Cinica was the first to climb. His boots scraped against the rusted rungs, his breath sharp in his throat, and when he pulled himself onto the rooftop the world opened before him in silence so unnatural it pressed like a fist against his chest.
It was not silence of absence, but silence of replacement.
The city stretched underground in layers, torn open like a corpse revealed on a table, foundations inverted as though the earth had been peeled inside out. And everywhere, walking in slow, solemn lines, were the shadows of men. But they were not men anymore. Their figures were too light, too hollow, faces drained of struggle, their mouths pressed into those same elongated smiles that seemed both holy and obscene. Their steps were measured, endless, without fatigue, like the turning of a machine.
Blood streaked the stones, blackening in pools, yet the creatures passed without acknowledgment, their feet gliding through crimson as though through water. There was no pain here, no screams, only that oppressive quiet, the strange mimicry of peace.
Cinica's hands tightened into fists. His throat contracted. He wanted to laugh but instead he roared, sudden and violent, a cry torn from the very bottom of his stomach:
"Enough!"
The word thundered against the stone and iron, reverberated through the endless cavern of the world, and for one dreadful moment, all the shadows turned their faces toward him.
They smiled.
They smiled as if they had been waiting.
Cinica staggered back, bile rising in his mouth. The weight of their attention pressed into him — no malice, no threat, only acceptance. That was worse. It was as though the entire abyss had leaned forward and said: We welcome you, brother.
He clenched his teeth and screamed again, louder, not in words but in a raw sound, a sound like a man calling God, or calling Death itself. His voice rose until it cracked into the rafters.
Far behind him, boots hammered on the stairwell. A moment later Noah burst through, his chest heaving. He blinked in confusion at the sight, at the army of shadows below, then at Cinica who stood trembling, veins raised in his neck like cords.
"What's wrong!?" Noah gasped.
Cinica did not answer at once. His chest heaved, his eyes wild, his voice hoarse as he spat the words:
"I am sick of this situation!"
Noah stepped toward him carefully, almost like approaching a wounded animal. His own face, pale in the dim rooftop light, softened with a kind of cautious sympathy.
"Don't feel sad," he said gently, "it's still in hand. Maybe this… maybe it's an evolution. Like for you."
The words struck Cinica like a blow. He wheeled around, his eyes flashing.
"Evolution?" His voice broke into a bitter laugh. "No, Noah. This is not evolution. This—" he gestured wildly at the smiling creatures below "—this is apocalypse. Do you not see? Humans will not accept this, cannot accept this. Equality, struggle, rebellion, even crime — all that makes us human — gone. Buried. When this spreads, mankind will die, and something else will wear its skin!"
Noah faltered. His lips trembled with a smile that tried to be reassuring but collapsed into unease.
"You still… look human," Noah said weakly.
"Do I?" Cinica snapped. He leaned closer, his teeth clenched, his eyes fevered. "Do I look human anymore? Look at me! My veins burn, my bones ache as if they were forged from iron, my voice shakes the air like thunder. This is not human. This is some parody of strength. I am already halfway among them."
For a moment, Noah did not speak. He studied Cinica with a gaze torn between fear and devotion, as though he wished to contradict him but could not. At last he whispered:
"The most humanitarian man I have ever known still stands before me."
Cinica let out a sharp, mirthless laugh.
"Humanitarian? Perhaps. But humanity will not accept me, Noah. Humanity will not accept what it cannot understand. Do you not see? Evolution is related to death. A lot of death. And here—" he pointed at the creatures below "—here is the proof. Do you know who they are?"
Noah shook his head. "Who even are these creatures?"
Cinica's lips curled into a strange smile, half bitter, half sad. "They are paradise creatures."
Noah stared, aghast. "Paradise? They don't look like it."
"I know," Cinica chuckled, low and hoarse. "But they are not living. They are paradise. That is the truth. Do you understand? When you are replaced, you are utterly dead. And your replacement—your smiling doppelgänger—asks you, What do you want?"
Noah's voice cracked, "And what do people answer?"
Cinica's eyes fell, his expression darkening into something almost tender. "Most people want happiness. And so they are welcomed into it. Eternal happiness. Smiling forever."
The rooftop seemed to sink under the words. Below, the shadows walked on, their smiles unbroken, their pace relentless.
Noah shivered. "But… is that not good? Happiness, even if artificial—"
"Artificial?" Cinica cut him off with a snarl. "No. It is worse. It is total. There is no more self. No more rebellion, no more yearning, no more blood. Happiness has no memory, no sorrow, no longing. Do you understand? Without longing, there is no man. Only a husk, a doll."
He pressed his hands to his face, his voice breaking. "I am sick of it, Noah. I am sick of watching the living turned into these—these obscene saints of joy. I cannot bear it."
For a long time they stood in silence. The underground world breathed with the rhythm of its false citizens. The shadows turned, endlessly circling streets slick with blood, their smiles unyielding, as if mocking the rage of those who still resisted.
Finally Noah said, very quietly: "If it is paradise, why does it look like hell?"
Cinica lowered his hands. His eyes were red, his lips trembling. "Because paradise and hell are brothers, Noah. And when you erase man, when you erase his contradictions, his pain, his struggle—you erase heaven too. What is left is this—" he gestured again, helplessly, at the walking, smiling dead "—this horror of eternal happiness. This is hell disguised as salvation."
And his voice, hoarse, ragged, almost cracked with the weight of it:
"Tell me, Noah. Would you rather weep as men, or smile as corpses?"
Noah did not answer. The question hung over them like a blade, heavy and impossible, while the paradise