The sky was burning.
Flames licked the horizon, painting the ruins in crimson. I sprinted through shattered streets, lungs clawing for air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of ash. Sirens wailed somewhere far off, but they were drowned beneath the thunder of collapsing towers and the roar of firestorms.
Earth had become a graveyard of nations—each one tearing itself apart with the very weapons it once swore would keep the peace.
Behind me, soldiers shouted, boots hammering against broken concrete. They were hunting me.
"Ha... ha... ha..." I gasped, my voice ragged. "Fuck, I'm out of breath... Those bastards keep chasing me like I did something horrible. I'm just trying to survive on this dying planet, for fuck's sake!"
My lungs burned. My vision blurred. But I couldn't stop. Not yet.
Then I saw it—the ruins of a subway station, its entrance cracked and jagged like the mouth of some buried beast. Without thinking, I slipped inside. The darkness swallowed me whole.
And that's when I saw them.
Six children, huddled in the shadows. Their faces were pale, streaked with soot—their eyes wide and hollow, already too old for their age.
When they saw me, they screamed.
"Haaa!" they shrieked, stumbling backward against the wall.
I raised my hands slowly, trying to calm them.
"Hey... hey... it's okay," I said softly. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm not your enemy. I'm just like you—hiding to survive."
They hesitated, then stilled. One of them, a boy no older than ten, whispered:
"Um... Mister... do you have food? We're starving."
I froze for a moment, then sighed. "Food, huh...?" I muttered, pulling the strap from my shoulder.
Without a second thought, I handed them my bag.
"Here. Take this. Got it from one of the military outposts."
They tore into it immediately—snacks, bread, juice, water. Their small hands trembled with hunger. They didn't even look at me, didn't offer a single piece.
I chuckled dryly. "Heh... greedy little brats," I whispered, though there was no malice in my voice. They needed it more than I did.
That was why the soldiers were chasing me. I was a thief—a good one. I stole from the military to survive. In this endless war, morality was a luxury no one could afford.
As they ate, I scanned the shadows, ears straining for footsteps. The silence pressed heavy.
Then—
Crack.
I looked up. The ceiling groaned, fractured—ready to collapse.
"Shit—!" I cursed, and without hesitation, threw myself over the children.
The weight crushed me.
Pain exploded through my body, but I didn't scream. My vision blurred, the world dimmed, and all I could think was—
I hope these children survive.
But deep down, I knew the truth: dying might be a mercy. A release from the suffering.
And yet, even in death, there was no peace.
Because suddenly, I realized—
I was supposed to die.
So why can I still think?