Kaelen learned quickly that staying alone was safer.
Not because people were dangerous—most weren't—but because groups gave the world something to simplify.
He didn't come to this conclusion lightly. It wasn't theory or fear. It was observation.
When he had traveled with four others, they became three within a day. Three became two by the next morning. Two never lasted longer than a night.
When he moved alone, the world seemed… hesitant. As if uncertain whether removing him would improve efficiency or create instability.
That uncertainty kept him alive.
He walked through the outskirts of the city as the light thinned, following roads that still pretended to lead somewhere meaningful. Cracked asphalt gave way to broken sidewalks, then to collapsed suburbs where houses leaned against each other like exhausted people.
Grass had turned pale and brittle. It broke under his boots instead of bending.
The silence followed him.
Not emptiness—presence.
Sound still existed. His breathing. His footsteps. The quiet scrape of cloth against skin. But the rest of the world seemed restrained, as if it were conserving effort, deciding what was worth maintaining.
Near dusk, he heard voices.
Actual voices.
Kaelen stopped instantly.
Relief surged first, sharp and unwelcome. Fear followed a heartbeat later, colder and more useful.
Sound had become rare enough to be dangerous.
"—I'm telling you, he was just gone."
The voices came from a low concrete structure ahead. A public shelter once, judging by the signage half-buried under grime. The doors were intact, reinforced with scavenged metal and care. Someone had taken time to protect this place.
Which meant people were inside.
He approached slowly, making no effort to hide himself. Sudden appearances made others nervous, and nervous people made mistakes.
"I'm not armed," he called out.
His voice sounded rough. Unused.
The door didn't open immediately.
A pause followed—long enough for him to wonder if they were deciding whether to risk him or let the silence take him.
Finally, the door opened a fraction.
A man looked out. Middle-aged. Lean. Eyes sharp in the way that came from watching too many people disappear and knowing he might be next.
"How many?" the man asked.
"Just me."
The door stayed where it was.
"Anyone following you?"
"No."
Another pause.
Then the door opened wider.
Inside, there were six of them.
Too many.
The thought came automatically to Kaelen, without emotion. Not judgment. Calculation.
Six was a number that demanded structure. Roles. Agreement. Hope.
Hope was dangerous.
They were spaced apart, not clustered. Close enough to be together, far enough to be separate. Everyone watched everyone else in small, careful ways—not suspicion, but assessment.
Food was shared with precision. No generosity. No hoarding. Each portion measured, each exchange silent. No one spoke while eating, as if conversation might draw attention from something listening.
Afterward, the questions began.
Where had he been? How long had he traveled alone? Had he seen it happen?
"Yes," Kaelen answered. "Yes." "Yes."
He didn't elaborate. The truth didn't need decoration.
A woman sitting near the wall laughed softly—not because it was funny, but because it was absurd.
"It's like the world's tired," she said. "Like it's cleaning house."
No one contradicted her.
The phrase lingered.
Cleaning house implied intent. It implied that what remained mattered more than what was removed.
That idea made people uncomfortable.
Night fell without ceremony.
They decided on watch rotations out of habit rather than necessity. Nothing attacked anymore. Nothing hunted. There were no sounds of pursuit or threat.
Things simply… ended.
Kaelen lay awake on the concrete floor, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths that were not his. Counting helped. Numbers still obeyed rules.
In the darkness, someone whispered, "I don't think we're meant to be here anymore."
The words came from a young man in the corner. Thin. Quiet. He had spoken little since Kaelen arrived.
No one answered him.
Not because they didn't hear—but because answering would make the thought real.
Silence stretched. It pressed inward, heavy and patient.
By morning, that corner of the room was empty.
No sound. No movement. No disturbance.
As if the space had always been vacant.
No one screamed.
No one rushed forward.
The older man—the one who had opened the door—closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, as though releasing something he had been holding for days.
"Purpose," he said hoarsely.
Someone frowned. "What?"
"People who stop believing they matter," the man continued, staring at the empty space, "they go first."
No one challenged him.
They didn't need to. Each of them had felt it—the moment when despair became heavier than fear.
Kaelen gathered his bag.
"You're leaving?" the woman asked.
He nodded. "I don't want to stop moving."
She didn't argue. Didn't ask him to stay. People had learned that persuasion carried risk.
Outside, the world waited—unfinished, undecided.
As Kaelen walked away, a conclusion settled into place, cold and precise:
The world didn't erase the weak.
It erased those who let go.
And as long as he continued to observe—as long as he refused to surrender meaning to silence—
He would remain.
For now.