Kale didn't sleep well.
He hadn't, really, since the world changed — but last night was worse. The compass sat near the cold ashes of his fire like a quiet accusation.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it watching him. Not the compass. The presence. Her.
He didn't know who she was. What she wanted.
He only knew she hadn't killed him yet.
Which, in this world, felt like a hell of a compliment.
By morning, he was still tired. Still empty. He packed his gear with slow hands, muttering to himself just to make the silence feel less loud.
"Objective for today," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"keep moving, don't die, try not to spiral into existential dread. Again. Ten outta ten would not recommend."
From the shadows near the window came a soft voice, barely audible:
"Dread spiral: round two."
He stopped mid-motion.
Not just mimicry. Not echoing. That was… a response.
He didn't turn around. Not yet.
Instead, he said casually.
"Glad you're still keeping up. I was worried you'd gotten bored of me and moved on to stalking someone with better snack options."
A pause.
Then:
"You don't eat much."
His hand froze around the strap of his bag.
"Yeah, well. Kinda hard to stay hungry when the world's a flaming disaster and all your friends are dead."
Silence.
It stretched long enough that he wondered if she'd gone.
But then she whispered, almost too quiet to hear:
"…Me too."
He didn't know what to say to that.
So he didn't say anything.
He kept moving that day. Through the western ruins. Past the scorched edges of an old hospital. Across a collapsed bridge that had been converted into a makeshift settlement, long abandoned.
No one else.
No signs of life. Just broken things pretending to matter.
He found a small rooftop and sat on the edge again, legs dangling dangerously close to nothing. The city beneath him looked like a corpse, still twitching under mana storms and mutated weather.
Kale held the compass again. Turned it in his hands.
It pointed north. Always north.
"Yeah," he muttered.
"Sure. Let's keep going that way. Worked out great for everyone else."
He tossed the compass gently into his pack and sat back.
The wind was cold up here. The kind of cold that reminded you you were still alive, which, some days, just felt like a punishment.
He took out the photo. Creased from too many nights of staring at it like it might change.
"Lou would've hated this world," he said aloud.
"Too quiet. No girls. No decent beer."
There was a soft shuffle behind him. Not close. Not yet. But he didn't have to look to know she was listening.
"Andre would've tried to fix it. Probably gotten eaten by a slime trying to give it a pep talk."
A pause.
Then the girl's voice:
"What about you?"
He blinked. "What about me?"
"What would you do… if you could fix it?"
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
He laughed. It was short and bitter.
"Sweetheart, I can't even fix my own brain. You think I've got the tools to patch up the end of the world?"
Silence.
He regretted calling her sweetheart. It slipped out. It made her seem too… real.
"You make jokes. A lot."
That time, he did turn.
Just enough to glance toward the source of the voice. A shadow behind the doorway to the rooftop. Still unseen. Still hiding. But closer.
He smiled faintly. Tired.
"Yeah. Well. I used to be funny. Back when I had people to laugh with."
"I laughed."
His smile cracked a little. The grief peeked through like a knife under skin.
"You shouldn't," he said.
"I'm not a good person anymore."
"Why not?"
He closed his eyes. The answer was heavy. Too big to carry, but too sharp to drop.
"Because they're all gone," he whispered.
"And I'm not."
A long pause.
The wind howled between broken buildings.
Then, from the shadows:
"I think you're sad."
He chuckled.
"Understatement of the year, kid."
"But you're trying."
That stopped him.
He didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know what to do with kindness when it came from a ghost in the shape of a child.
So instead, he said, "You've been watching me a while, huh?"
No answer.
He nodded.
"Alright. New rule. You want to stick around? That's fine. But you start pulling your weight."
"Like how?"
He smiled, eyes still tired.
"First lesson: never trust anything that looks like a bunny. Especially if it talks."
A giggle. That same soft, breathy one from before. Closer now.
"Okay."
He waited. Listened.
She didn't leave.
And for the first time since the world fell apart, he didn't feel like he was falling with it.