Abdi
Craig returned, breathing heavily.
Abdi noticed right away how fast Craig's chest rose and how tight his shoulders seemed, as if he had been carrying something heavier than Selma. Craig kicked the door shut with his foot and stood there for a moment, hand still on the handle, listening.
Selma hovered just behind him.
She didn't step in at first. She lingered in the doorway, half in the hall and half in the apartment, as if she was unsure where was safer. Her eyes darted around. Wall. Ceiling. Window. People. Floor. Back to the window.
Abdi shifted his weight and realised he was tapping his foot again. He stopped it but didn't trust himself to keep it still, so he planted it flat and leaned more into the counter.
No one spoke.
The apartment felt smaller with Selma present. Not crowded—just tighter. It felt like the air had grown a little thinner.
Craig finally broke the silence. "The door stays shut."
His voice was lower than before, not calmer—just quieter.
Selma nodded. She wiped her hands on her jeans even though they looked clean. Then she stepped fully inside and let the door close behind her.
The building creaked.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't sudden. It was the slow, deep sound of something under strain.
Hassan flinched in his chair near the balcony doors. He pulled his knees closer to his chest and glanced up, eyes wide, as if the ceiling might collapse just from being looked at.
Chris leaned forward on the arm of the couch. His hands were relaxed, but Abdi could see the tension in his forearms. Every noise outside made his head snap up.
Zak sat on the floor near the wall, knees drawn in, staring into space. He looked smaller than usual. Younger.
Abdi swallowed.
"Did you see anyone else?" Chris asked.
His voice cracked at the end.
Craig shook his head once. "Not in the hall."
Selma spoke quietly. "I knocked on two doors. No answer."
"Maybe they didn't hear," Hassan said, not sounding convinced.
"Maybe," Craig said.
That word didn't help.
Another distant sound rolled through the air—not an explosion this time, just a low vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The floor trembled beneath Abdi's shoes. His stomach tightened instinctively, like before a roller coaster drop.
Abdi pushed himself off the counter. "We should check the other floors."
Craig turned to him. "No."
Abdi opened his mouth, then shut it. He tried again. "We can't just—"
"No," Craig insisted, firmer this time. "You go out there, you don't come back."
"How do you know?" Abdi shot back.
Craig met his gaze. His eyes weren't angry—they were tired. Scared in a way that didn't look like panic.
"I don't," Craig said. "That's the point."
Silence filled the space again.
Abdi clenched his hands. His palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans, feeling foolish for mimicking Selma.
"Maybe," Selma said slowly, "we look. Just a little. From inside."
Craig hesitated.
Abdi followed Selma's gaze to the window.
The balcony doors.
The glass hadn't shattered. Somehow, it felt wrong that it was still intact.
Craig exhaled through his nose. "One look," he said. "Then away."
No one argued.
They moved slowly, as if sudden motion might draw attention. Abdi stayed back at first, letting Hassan and Chris edge closer to the balcony doors. Zak crawled forward on his knees, cautious, as if the floor might collapse if he moved too quickly.
Abdi ended up beside Selma. He could hear her breathing—quick and shallow. He focused on that instead of the creaking sound coming from the building beneath them.
Chris pulled the curtain aside just enough to see through the glass.
Then he froze.
"Chris?" Hassan whispered.
Chris didn't respond.
Abdi stepped closer, his heart pounding in his throat. He leaned enough to see past Chris's shoulder.
The street below was still there.
But it wasn't right.
The floating building across from them—the one Zak had been staring at earlier—was no longer alone.
Thick, dark strands stretched outward from it, disappearing into the distance. They weren't straight. They sagged slightly under their own weight, catching dust and debris. A web.
Abdi's breath caught.
The strands wrapped around other buildings. Three of them. Office blocks and apartment towers, suspended at different heights like insects caught mid-struggle. Concrete cracked where the strands dug in. Balconies bent. Windows shattered and hung uselessly in frames.
Then Abdi saw it.
Above them.
The spider.
It wasn't fully visible at first. Just parts—a leg sliding into view, jointed and massive, thicker than a tree trunk. Another followed, slow and deliberate, gripping the web with ease.
Then its body emerged from behind the buildings.
Abdi's mind couldn't grasp its size. No scale fit. Its abdomen was wider than the street below. Its surface was not smooth—it was layered, ridged, like hardened armour, catching light in dull, uneven patches.
Its legs moved with terrifying precision, each one placing itself carefully on the web as if it could feel every vibration.
Abdi felt his knees weaken.
"Oh God," Hassan whispered.
The spider climbed.
As it moved, the web shifted—and the buildings moved with it.
Abdi felt it then. A pull. A subtle tug beneath his feet.
He looked down.
The floor.
The building wasn't just creaking.
It was connected.
Abdi followed the web strands with his eyes, heart racing. One line disappeared past their balcony, stretching upward and around the side of their building.
"No," he breathed.
Another tremor ran through the apartment, stronger this time.
Selma grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.
"We're—" Chris started, then paused.
Zak spoke, barely above a whisper. "We're in it."
The realisation hit Abdi like cold water.
Their building wasn't just near the web.
It was part of it.
A sudden flash of movement drew Abdi's attention back outside.
Down the street, a tank was half-hidden behind debris. Smoke drifted lazily from its barrel.
The spider didn't react.
No damage. No missing limbs. No sign that the shot mattered at all.
The spider paused, then kept climbing, its weight pulling the web tighter.
Abdi felt the floor dip.
"Back," Craig said sharply. "Now."
They didn't argue this time.
Chris dropped the curtain. Hassan scrambled back. Zak pressed himself flat against the wall again, breathing hard.
Abdi stumbled back, heart hammering, ears ringing. His legs felt weak, as if they might buckle at any moment.
The apartment groaned.
Dust fell from the ceiling like a fine mist.
Selma slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, head tipped back, eyes closed.
Abdi leaned against the counter again, gripping the edge until his knuckles hurt.
No one spoke for a long time.
Finally, Hassan broke the silence. "If… if we're stuck in it…"
He didn't finish.
Craig ran a hand over his face. "We wait," he said. "For now."
"For what?" Abdi asked.
Craig didn't answer.
Abdi's thoughts spiralled. Other people. Other buildings. The rest of the city.
"What if there are survivors?" Abdi said. "What if people are out there right now?"
Selma opened her eyes. "What if there aren't?"
The question hung heavily among them.
Chris shook his head. "There have to be. This is Nairobi. Kilimani. Someone would've—"
"Would've what?" Hassan snapped. "Called? Screamed? Done something?"
No one had answers.
Abdi pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to steady himself. He focused on small details—the chipped paint along the wall, the low hum of electricity, the smell of dust and old furniture stuck in the apartment.
The building creaked again.
Zak shifted near the wall.
It was subtle. Just a movement. Zak adjusted his leg, dragging his heel lightly across the tile, then stopped. He frowned, as if something felt off.
Abdi watched without knowing why.
Zak glanced down at his leg and lifted the hem of his shorts slightly, not carefully, not expecting anything. Just checking.
Nothing happened.
Zak stared for a moment longer than made sense and then dropped the fabric back down.
"What?" Hassan asked.
Zak shook his head. "Nothing."
The building groaned, deep and slow, the sound vibrating through the floor. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Zak leaned back against the wall again, quieter than before.
Abdi looked away.
He didn't know what he'd expected to see. He only knew the moment felt wrong, like a word left unsaid.
Outside, the web tightened.