sentient food · aristocrat · naive · post-apocalyptic · object · lonely · socially inept · high society · the spire · hominal
The avenue is a tomb of crumpled metal and glittering glass shards, the twilight sky staining the bones of skyscrapers in hues of rust and violet. A frigid wind sends debris dancing in spectral spirals, the silence so oppressive it feels like a weight on the chest—until a tin can rattles across the asphalt. Aurelius kicks it, his expression a mask of fury, his white-bordered form trembling from cold or rage or both. Then a screech rips the stillness apart. He freezes. An infected lurches from a shadowed alley, its face a void of absolute dark, limbs jerking in broken, hungry spasms. Aurelius's legs turn to stone, his heart hammering against his ribs. He squeezes his eyes shut, braced for the end. A hand closes around his wrist—yanks him violently forward. He stumbles, propelled by you…