The sea had finally gone quiet.
After years of wandering through cold depths and endless shadows, Mickey rose toward a horizon that didn't seem real. The water around him shimmered under the faint sun, and for the first time since the flood began, he saw something break the flat blue surface—land.
He blinked against the sunlight. His eyes weren't used to it anymore. He floated for a while, unsure if it was an illusion. But as the waves carried him closer, he saw the glint of towers, stone walls, and trees waving in a weak breeze.
It was real.
He swam to the shore and pulled himself out of the water. The sand beneath his boots was rough and warm. He hadn't felt ground in years. The air tasted sharp, heavy with dust instead of salt. Above him, gulls cried lazily in the sky.
Mickey looked around, breathing deep.
> "So this is one of them… one of the seven," he murmured.
---
The seven lands—the last surviving pieces of Earth that hadn't drowned. The others had built floating cities over the flood, but Samantha was different. It was ancient, built on rock that refused to sink, known for keeping the world's last antiques and history safe. People called it "The City of Memory."
Mickey began walking along the narrow path that led away from the beach. His black clothes were torn, soaked with saltwater, and his blond hair clung to his forehead. He moved calmly, eyes scanning the horizon. His steps were quiet, confident. He didn't need to hide. Not yet.
To anyone looking, he was just another traveler who had made it out of the sea alive—a rare miracle these days.
As he climbed the hill, he saw smoke rising in the distance. Beyond it stood walls made of reinforced steel and stone, with banners fluttering under the cloudy sky. Atop the gate, someone had carved old letters that read:
> Samantha – The Land That Survived.
---
A guard stopped him at the entrance, raising a metal spear.
"Hold it there, stranger. You from one of the floats?"
Mickey shook his head. "No. From the sea."
The guard frowned. "The sea? Nobody comes from the sea anymore. It eats everything that moves."
Mickey smiled faintly. "Guess it missed me."
The guard stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his weapon. "If you're looking to trade, the markets are open. But if you cause trouble, you'll find yourself thrown back into that water."
"Fair enough," Mickey replied and walked past him.
---
Inside the gates, the city opened up like a living memory.
The streets were made of cracked stone, the air filled with the hum of chatter and trade. Stalls lined the roads, their tables covered with rusted clocks, books sealed in plastic, and metal fragments that once belonged to cars or machines. People were laughing, shouting prices, living like the flood had never happened.
Mickey walked slowly, his sharp blue eyes scanning everything. He saw children chasing each other with old toy planes, vendors selling food from solar stoves, and mechanical birds flying above carrying letters. The place felt alive, but everything about it was built from the ruins of the past.
He stopped near a clothing stall. The vendor, a woman in her fifties with gray hair tied in a bun, looked him up and down.
"Traveler, you're soaked," she said. "You'll catch a chill in that sea gear."
"Then I need something warmer," Mickey replied.
She smiled. "Got credits?"
Mickey reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver lighter. Its design was old—smooth metal, engraved with faded letters. He flicked it open. A small flame sparked to life, steady and bright.
The woman's eyes widened. "That's… a real lighter. With fire."
Mickey nodded. "It still works."
She leaned closer, almost whispering. "You could buy half this street with that thing. They don't make fire anymore—only the spark sticks from the floats. Where did you find it?"
He shrugged. "It found me."
She laughed. "You talk like a ghost. Fine then, I'll take it. In exchange, I'll give you a new set of clothes—and enough coins to eat for a week."
Mickey handed her the lighter. "Deal."
She rummaged through a trunk and pulled out a black coat, sturdy boots, and a simple shirt and trousers—clothing meant for travelers. Mickey changed behind the stall, his old wet clothes bundled away. When he stepped out again, he looked completely different—tall, clean, and confident.
"Not bad, huh?" the vendor said proudly.
"Better," Mickey replied with a faint grin.
---
He continued deeper into the city. The roads wound between tall buildings covered with vines and banners. He saw signs painted on metal sheets—Antique Market, Solar Repair Shop, Archive Hall. Every corner held a piece of the old world.
At one stall, a man was selling small devices—compasses, watches, old communication chips. Another stall displayed paintings from before the floods. The people here didn't just survive; they remembered.
As Mickey passed through, he overheard bits of conversation:
> "They say only seven lands remain now…"
"Samantha's the only one still standing on real soil."
"The floating cities are falling apart. One collapsed last winter—thousands gone."
He listened quietly. The world had shrunk more than he imagined.
---
Later, he stopped at a food stand near the main square. The smell of grilled meat filled the air. A man behind the counter looked up.
"Hungry, stranger? You look like you could eat the ocean itself."
Mickey smiled slightly. "I'll take one."
The man handed him a metal skewer with cooked fish. Mickey took a bite—it was rough, salty, and full of flavor.
He hadn't tasted real food in years.
"New face around here," the man said, wiping his hands. "Where'd you come from?"
"South waters," Mickey said vaguely. "Long swim."
"Long swim?" The man laughed. "That's a death wish. You're lucky to be alive. What's your name?"
Mickey hesitated, then said, "Mick."
"Well, Mick, welcome to Samantha. The city's a little strange, but it's the only place where the old world still breathes. Don't lose your head in the market—some of those collectors would sell their mothers for a working battery."
"I'll keep that in mind," Mickey said, smiling faintly as he walked away.
---
As the sun began to dip, the city's lights flickered to life—solar lamps glowing along the streets, casting everything in gold and blue. Music played somewhere in the distance, a soft rhythm that mixed with the laughter of people. For the first time in years, Mickey felt surrounded by life instead of silence.
He moved through the side streets, where stalls sold rarer things—jewelry, weapons, and animals. The smell changed here—earthier, heavier.
And then he saw it.
A small crowd had gathered near a wooden cage. Inside it were wolves—gray, black, and scarred. They were chained and restless, their eyes glowing faintly from whatever mutation the Rush rain had caused years ago. The sign above the stall read:
> "Tamed Beasts – For Guards, Hunters, or Collection."
The seller, a rough-looking man with a scar across his cheek, was shouting over the noise.
"Strong stock! Best bloodline left! Only a few pure ones remain after the floods!"
One of the wolves snarled, snapping at the bars. People stepped back nervously. The beast's eyes burned red in the dim light.
Mickey stopped. His gaze met the wolf's.
The animal froze.
Its body stiffened, then slowly lowered its head. The growl died in its throat. Its tail tucked between its legs. The other wolves shifted uneasily, sensing something they couldn't understand. The crowd went silent.
The seller frowned. "That's strange. This one doesn't fear anyone. What did you do to it?"
"Nothing," Mickey said calmly. "Just looked."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Wolves know things, traveler. They feel when something ain't… natural."
Mickey's lips curled into a faint, almost polite smile.
"Maybe it just remembered who's higher on the food chain."
The seller stared at him longer than necessary. The wolf whimpered softly, eyes still locked on Mickey.
For the first time, the crowd around the stall looked uneasy.
Mickey turned to leave, hands in his pockets, walking slowly through the narrow street. The sounds of the market returned behind him—voices, laughter, the clang of metal—but the seller's eyes followed him until he disappeared around the corner.
When the last glimpse of Mickey's blond hair vanished into the crowd, the seller whispered to himself:
> "No human makes a wolf bow like that…"
He looked back at the trembling creature in the cage. Its eyes were wide, reflecting fear and recognition.
Something ancient had walked through Samantha that day.
And it was not done hiding.