The rain never ceased. It had become a constant drum, a reminder that the world below was drowning, that humanity was revealing its true colors. Brian adjusted the tarp over his rooftop garden, checking the water's drainage. Pumpkins, watermelons, potatoes—all were soaked, but resilient. He noted their condition in his journal, precise and analytical.
Then movement caught his eye. At first, it was subtle—a shadow flitting along the edge of a neighboring rooftop—but Brian recognized it immediately. Gangs. They were scouting. Always watching, always calculating. The first attacks had begun within hours of the flood, and now, they were bold enough to move across rooftops, unafraid.
Brian's first instinct was to grab the crossbow. His fingers closed around the wooden stock, his knuckles whitening. The gears in his mind worked frenetically: distance, wind, trajectory. He could eliminate a single threat, yes, but more would follow. And he was alone.
A small voice interrupted his calculations. One of the children from the previous day had returned, soaked again, clutching a thin blanket. The child's eyes were wide, desperate. "Food… please," they whispered.
Brian exhaled slowly. He should have said no. Adults would exploit this. He knew it. But the child—innocent, trusting—could not be refused. He handed over a small portion of rice and potatoes, watching carefully as the child devoured it, shivering.
"Stay close," he muttered. "Don't go near the edges." His voice was harsh, more to assert authority than to scare. The child nodded, eyes wide, and Brian turned his attention back to the shadow across the street.
Movement again. This time, an adult—a woman—appeared on the neighboring rooftop, hesitating as if measuring the risk. Brian's mind raced. Food, survival, danger. Women in the flood had begun making desperate trades: favors for sustenance, safety, anything that promised survival. He had seen it reported in the early hours of the flood, and now it was real, tangible, here before him.
The woman called out, her voice trembling but firm. "I need supplies… just a little rice. My brother is sick. Please."
Brian's instincts screamed at him. He should refuse. Adults were a risk. Desperate adults, even more so. Yet there was a calculation inside him, an instinct he could not ignore: providing food might buy information, perhaps even reduce immediate threat.
He opened a small hatch in the railing, letting her approach, but only cautiously, keeping the crossbow loaded, one finger ready on the trigger. "Half a sack," he said. "No more. And then you leave."
Her eyes flickered, a mixture of relief and something else—something he did not name aloud. She reached out, and Brian felt the familiar, awkward stir of human desire mingled with fear and calculation. He handed her the rice, noting the tension in his chest, and reminded himself: do not falter. Do not invite weakness.
As she backed away, disappearing into the rain, Brian scribbled in his journal:
"Observation: Adults will attempt to negotiate, exploit, or manipulate. Emotional triggers present. Caution required. Physical engagement discouraged."
The city below was not idle. Gangs had begun consolidating power, patrolling flooded streets, and marking territories on rooftops. He could see small fires from looted apartments, figures dragging the wounded or dead, shadows shifting with methodical cruelty. Brian's traps and crossbow were his only defense, but he knew brute force alone would not be enough if multiple attackers came at once.
He turned to his laboratory corner, checking water samples and examining a fish he had caught the previous day. Its scales shimmered unnaturally, patterns glowing faintly under the dim light. He made detailed sketches, noting mutations: phosphorescence, unusual growths along the dorsal fins. If the rain was altering aquatic life, perhaps it was altering humans too. Aggression, desperation, and the physicality of survival—it could change anyone.
Hours passed. The rain's rhythm never faltered. More children arrived, guided by instinct, desperation, or word of mouth. Brian fed them in careful rotations, noting their conditions, checking for illness, and warning them not to wander near the edges. He could not refuse them, even as he calculated the risk each child brought into his sanctuary.
Then, an unmistakable sound—shouting, metal striking metal. A group of gang members had attempted to climb the side of a building, searching for easy prey. Brian raised the crossbow, taking aim with precise efficiency. A single bolt struck the nearest attacker in the shoulder. The others froze, momentarily shocked, then scattered into the rain.
He exhaled, lowering the weapon. The message had been sent. He would defend this rooftop to the last. Yet he noted the incident in his journal:
"Encounter 1: Gang infiltration attempted. Defensive measures effective. Probability of repeated attempts: high. Observation: human greed is immediate and brutal under threat."
Night fell, and the rain continued without pause. The city had transformed into a labyrinth of water and shadows. On his rooftop, Brian lit a small lantern, giving enough light to record notes and maintain visibility without attracting unwanted attention.
The children slept in small clusters, huddled under tarps and blankets. Brian walked the perimeter, checking traps, ensuring that the edges were secure. His mind wandered briefly to the woman earlier, the tension of her eyes, the subtle suggestion in her desperation. He dismissed it, returning to calculations: water flow patterns, food reserves, possible mutations, trap placements. Survival demanded focus, not indulgence.
And yet, he could not ignore the quiet stirrings of humanity in the flood. Hunger, fear, desire—each interaction, each observation, was data, and data was survival.
By the end of the night, Brian leaned against the railing, watching the relentless downpour. Shadows moved below, and he knew the gangs were still out there, ruthless and opportunistic. Children slept safely, for now, and his traps and crossbow remained ready. But the city was no longer just water and debris; it was human instinct made visible, violent and unpredictable.
He wrote one last note before drifting into a light, uneasy sleep:
"Day 3. Flood continues. Threats increase. Children dependent, adults opportunistic, gangs violent. Observations recorded. Survival requires constant vigilance. I endure."
Outside, the rain fell with unwavering intensity. Inside, Brian prepared for the storm's next revelation—and the world's next betrayal.