Staring at the monster's retreating back, a chill washed over me like a bucket of ice water.The full horror of the situation finally hit — a heavy lump formed in my throat.
"I'm in the world of 'Nightingale.' That shitty novel I was reading on the subway… What the actual fuck?"
My heart pounded in my temples, hammering an erratic rhythm.The first instinct screamed: Run!But where? And how? One wrong step — and that thing would hear me.
"Calm down. Just breathe. Wait until that freak's gone, then move. I need to find something — anything. If I'm stuck here, I need a weapon. A way to fight back."
Pressing my back against the cold wall, I counted the seconds. Each one crawled by like molasses.Then—thump… thump…—a faint, springy sound echoed, followed by the scratch of claws against asphalt.And silence.
It was gone.
Only then did I dare to exhale. Slowly, carefully, I crept out of the ruined store, walking down a street littered with glass and debris. The destruction stretched endlessly in every direction.Collapsed towers. Burnt cars. Looted stores.No people. Only the wind — howling through the city's hollow windows like the breath of ghosts.
Then it hit me.This wasn't some random apocalypse.I was in Europe. Or what was left of it. Near what used to be the US border — just like in the novel. I remembered the lore: the first outbreak of the "Silent Ones" began here, sweeping continent after continent. Europe had fallen first. Only Asia was still holding out somewhere beyond the Ural Mountains.
"Fuck… why me? Of all people, why me?"
As my thoughts swirled, pieces of someone else's memory surfaced again.A name… Liam.Seventeen years old — three years younger than my real self.And this body — stronger, leaner, moving differently.Weird. Being yourself, yet not.
I walked through the ruins, scanning every shadow, every cracked doorway, searching for something useful.A weapon.
In the book, it was clear — bullets were useless against the Silent Ones. Their flesh was dense and rubbery. You needed blades. Something sharp enough to cut or pierce.
A sword, an axe… even a damn kitchen knife.
It took a full day before I found something that could work.
A ruined police station.The doors were ripped off their hinges, the inside a mess of papers and broken furniture.In one of the cells, lying in the corner, was my salvation — not a katana, not a sword, but just as good.
A crowbar.Rough, heavy, about a meter long. Its tip glinted faintly in the beam of dusty sunlight filtering through the bars.I picked it up. The weight felt right — solid, cold, grounding.Not elegant. Not noble. But real.
This wasn't the weapon of a hero.It was the tool of a survivor.And in this world, survival meant more than honor ever could.
I gripped it tight, my knuckles whitening.Finally — a chance.Crooked, slim, but a chance nonetheless.
"Well then," I muttered, watching the sun sink behind the ruins. "Here we go."
Meanwhile — Sector D
On the other side of the ruined city, in the last human-controlled district, chaos reigned with military precision.The Defense Command operated from the reinforced basement of what used to be the city administration. Sandbags, steel beams, and the faint hum of generators filled the air.
"Delta Unit! Prepare to deploy! Move out in five!""Yes, sir!"
Soldiers checked their weapons with the calm efficiency of people who'd done it a thousand times before.Overseeing them was a man in a tattered officer's coat — tall, lean, with jet-black hair and eyes the color of frozen steel.General Arman Renn.The commander tasked with holding back the tide of the Silent Ones.And this — this was one of humanity's last strongholds.
He turned away from the troops with a tired sigh."Every day they multiply. And every day, we're fewer."
His office was stark — no comforts, no softness.Just a war map dotted with red and blue flags, a cluttered desk covered in reports, and one still-functioning computer.On the wall hung two faded photographs: one of him in full uniform, another — a group shot of his unit, all of them younger, alive, defiant.
"Beautiful, isn't it," Arman muttered bitterly, lowering himself into the chair. "The last brave fools."
The shrill buzz of his secure satellite phone broke the silence.Caller ID: Daniel.
He already knew what this call was about.
"Daniel," he greeted quietly."Arman," came the reply — hoarse, trembling.A long pause."So? Any news about the boy?"
Arman closed his eyes. The weight on his shoulders felt heavier than any rank or medal.
"Not yet," he said softly. "He's still listed as missing."
On the other end, a ragged exhale — halfway between a sob and a curse.
"I don't understand how this happened, Arman. My son's gone. Gone!" Daniel's voice broke, laced with fury and helpless grief.
Arman felt that familiar sting of guilt, sharp as ever.He'd known Liam — Daniel's son — since the boy was a child.Bright, curious, full of fire.And he'd watched Daniel bring him here to the front lines — "to see what real courage looks like."It was supposed to be safe. Controlled. Just a glimpse of war.
Then the breach happened.A sudden, furious assault by the Silent Ones.Chaos. Fire. Blood.When it was over, Liam's name appeared not under "Killed in Action," but "Missing."And that single word kept Daniel alive — and slowly destroyed him.
"We're still searching, Dan," Arman said firmly, staring at the burning horizon outside his window. "Every day, scout teams go out. I gave the order myself."
"He has to be alive," came the whisper. "He has to…"
When the line went dead, Arman sat motionless, eyes fixed on the map before him.The red markers — zones of monster activity — spread like a cancer.And somewhere in that spreading scar of death… a seventeen-year-old boy might still be breathing.
The thought of it was worse than any nightmare.Because if that boy was truly alive —he was out there, alone, fighting to survive in a world Arman himself had failed to protect.