The engine of the Bulkswagen rattled in an uneven rhythm, a dull, metallic heartbeat echoing through its frame. Adam sat on the edge of the backseat, the cold metal digging into his legs as he rummaged through the piled crates and worn canvas bags. It was exhausting keeping the circular formation of the military convoy intact—cars moving like tired insects through the fractured streets of the city.
His stomach growled a bit. Loud. Persistent. But he tried to ignore it as he still can, tapping his foot against the floorboard, jittery from more than just hunger. Yoku noticed, glancing back with a faint, knowing smile.
"I don't think you should keep doing that," he said lightly. "Up to you… but you'll get hungry faster. Might bite you later."
Adam tilted his head. His arms were thin—almost skeletal—and his legs weren't much better. Twigs compared to Yoku's sturdier build. Maybe his metabolism was slow, he told himself. Maybe he wouldn't get hungry that fast. Maybe.
But deep down he knew the truth: he really couldn't stop it. He was uncomfortable. The shaking roads, the strangers around him, the gnawing thought that he'd been thrown into another world without warning…and without consent.
Honestly, if he hadn't been transported, he would've starved to death back home. He never went outside. Someone always had to feed him, sustain him, or he simply wouldn't be able to eat at all. Pathetic—no, frustrating. The kind of frustration that curls in your chest, because you can't control anything. Not your life. Not your hunger. Not your circumstances.
No money. No power. Just a kid.
It was almost funny how it still felt exactly the same here.
Yoku caught his expression and laughed awkwardly, reaching over to ruffle Adam's hair before pulling his hand back, embarrassed.
"You alright?" he asked.
Adam hugged his knees closer. "I guess."
Yoku raised a brow. "By the looks of it… I don't think you're that fine." He gestured toward a metal bar jutting from the side of the vehicle. "Anything on your mind?"
"I'm just… thinking about my life," Adam muttered. "Or how awful it was."
The Bulkswagen rolled through a long intersection. Endless rows of concrete buildings stretched outward, identical and monotonous—square faces of a dead metropolis staring back, silent and hollow.
Yoku exhaled slowly. "You don't have to tell me," he said. "Not my place to dig into your past. I wasn't there. But… yeah. Sounds miserable."
"Yeah. I had nothing…" Adam murmured.
Silence settled for a moment—uncomfortable, fragile. Yoku could feel it tightening like a rope. If he let it sit too long, he knew it would only get worse. So he swallowed hard, fidgeted, and decided to speak.
"The city never answered why you're suffering," he said quietly. "Same with me."
Adam's eyes lifted. "…What do you mean?"
"I'm not sure if I'm the same as you," Yoku said, gripping the handle beside him. "But… I felt confused too." He smiled faintly, almost bitterly. "Never met my parents. Not once. So, yeah. No mother. No father."
Adam listened, still as stone.
"But I had a grandfather. A cool one. Someone who raised me even though he didn't have to." Yoku's smile flickered. "Another burden for him, I guess."
He reached behind him, snagged a water bottle, and placed it in Adam's hands. Adam blinked at it, his fingers tightening around the cool plastic.
"I regret a lot," Yoku admitted. "I never gave anything back to him before he disappeared. Our base got wiped out. I had to run. I hated people for a while—hate that made sense, but also didn't. Because I'm human too."
The car jostled over a cracked patch of road. Yoku steadied himself, pointing at his own chest with a small, crooked grin.
"But I met comrades. People who taught me things. Helped me. Made me realize I was wrong. I was just… judgmental. And yeah, I miss them." His voice softened. "A lot."
His expression dimmed as he added, "Couldn't even help them when sickness took them. So don't you go cutting yourself, or eating raw food, or sticking your hands near rotten stuff, Adam. Those things kill. Literally."
Adam looked down. At least he had a family once. Yoku had handled everything alone.
Yoku waved his hands quickly, embarrassed. "No—don't take it like I'm saying I've got it worse. You probably suffered more. I just…" He scratched his cheek nervously.
The bridge ahead sagged slightly, half-collapsed. Yoku maneuvered the car across, careful and slow. They headed toward the center of the stratum, where the upper sky began to open—thin rays of light slipping through the cracks like hands reaching down to touch them.
"I guess…" Yoku murmured, eyes on the road, "we just have to keep moving forward. You don't need to worry about the things that already happened. Or the things that might happen later. You can't control everything."
He worked his jaw, searching for words that felt real.
"You do what you can," he said finally. "And don't blame yourself if you can't do everything… or if tomorrow never comes. This world's garbage. Too big. Too uncaring."
He hid half his face behind his arm, embarrassed again. "But if you can—eat. Drink. Laugh a bit. Keep going. And if you can't… then accept it. Not agree with it. Like stop fighting fog and walk through it."
He shrugged lightly, tired. "Makes it hurt less."
Adam listened. Really listened. And something in him eased—not gone, but quieter. A warmth, faint as a candle in a dead room, flickered in his chest.
He reached for the stack of books behind him, pulling one close and settling into it. Rest came easier than he expected.
—
He woke later in the caravan as the bumps of the road of stone causes Adam to wake up, tears sliding down his cheek before he even registered why. He sat up, wiping them away, confused and annoyed by his own emotions.
The dream lingered. The words lingered.
Adam grumbled, letting out a breath as he placed the sword beside him.
"This is annoying," he muttered.