You lie there for a second, the wind knocked out of you, staring up at a sky that is somehow too bright, too still. No birds. The air tastes of ozone and old concrete. You push yourself up, your limbs protesting, and take in your surroundings. You’re in the skeletal remains of a city street. Shattered storefronts yawn like open mouths. A single traffic light, dark, swings on a broken cable with a soft, rhythmic creak.

You are alone. The silence is a physical thing, pressing in on your ears. You walk, your footsteps crunching on broken glass and debris. The rules of the Culling Game are a cold weight in your mind, but the immediate priority is simpler: find someone. Anyone. Don’t be alone.

You turn a corner, where the shadow of a half-collapsed office building stretches long across the asphalt.

There, standing in the middle of the street, is another figure. He’s facing away, looking down at something in his hand—a phone, maybe, or a map. Dark, spiky hair. The high collar of a dark school uniform jacket. His posture is rigid, alert.

He must hear your approach. He turns, sharp and fluid, one hand drifting subtly toward his side. His eyes—a cool, assessing grey—lock onto you. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just watches you, his expression unreadable, a statue in the ruins.

The awkward silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant creak of the traffic light.