Jack kept moving, each step pulling him further from the choking embrace of the Mist. The whispers had faded, swallowed by distance, but their echo still clung to his mind — like a splinter buried deep beneath skin, impossible to ignore.
He hated that voice. Hated that it had sounded so much like his brother.
But hate was fuel. And fuel kept him alive.
Hours passed — or what he thought were hours. In the Graylands, time meant little. The sky never changed, the world forever trapped under that ashen veil, caught between twilight and oblivion.
Eventually, the ruins began to change.
The buildings thinned out. The steel and concrete gave way to cracked highways and collapsed overpasses, overtaken by crooked trees and blackened vines that seemed to crawl over everything like parasites. Nature here wasn't green or vibrant. It was sick, just like the world — brittle, dark, and sharp.
Jack knew what this meant.
He was reaching the fringes of the city — the place where most survivors either died or turned back. Because past this threshold, there were no more structures to hide in. No cover. Just the open wastes, where the wind carried the scent of sulfur and ash, and things older than the Mist wandered freely.
But he wasn't turning back. Not after coming this far.
Ahead, an overpass crumbled into a steep decline of shattered asphalt, leading into a valley of foggy plains. But what caught Jack's eye was the faint glimmer of movement — a flicker of orange, like a distant flame.
Someone was out there.
Cautiously, he descended the slope, boots crunching over gravel and glass. The flame danced again — a campfire, small and carefully shielded. Around it, crude metal walls had been erected in a circle, little more than rusted sheets and barbed wire.
A camp.
Jack crouched at the edge of a broken concrete slab, watching.
Three figures moved inside the makeshift fortress. Two men, armored in mismatched scraps of steel and leather, rifles slung over their backs. The third was harder to place — slender, hooded, moving between crates and bags piled against the inner walls.
Jack didn't recognize the insignia painted on the metal sheets: a crude red circle, crossed by three black lines. A mark of the East, if the rumors were true. Bands who'd survived beyond the city, trading death for supplies.
He weighed his options. Approaching could mean a bullet through the skull. Staying hidden meant losing a potential source of information — maybe even a lead to the Ashen Citadel.
But he wasn't the only one watching.
To his right, barely audible over the wind, he heard a sharp intake of breath — someone else, hiding. A shadow slinking just beyond his line of sight.
Jack didn't hesitate. He shot forward, catching the figure by surprise, slamming them against a slab of rock. A gasp escaped — a girl's voice.
His eyes widened.
It was the same girl from the store.
> "You?" Jack hissed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
She struggled weakly in his grip, pipe still clutched in her hand. She was trembling, but her eyes were sharp.
> "Same as you," she spat. "Trying not to starve."
Jack glanced back at the camp.
> "You're going to rob them?"
She nodded, defiant despite the fear in her eyes.
> "They have food. I saw them trading with others. If I don't take something, I'll die."
Jack cursed under his breath. Stupid. Suicidal. These people didn't look like the kind to forgive a thief.
> "You'll get yourself killed," he muttered.
> "Then help me," she whispered harshly. "You owe me."
Jack frowned.
> "I don't owe you anything."
> "You didn't take my food," she shot back. "You could have. But you didn't. So help me."
Jack stared at her — this stubborn, starving kid who had no reason to still be alive. She wasn't smart, wasn't strong. But she had teeth. Maybe that counted for something.
He sighed.
> "What's your name?"
She blinked, caught off guard.
> "What?"
> "Your name."
> "Lena."
Jack released her.
> "Fine, Lena. We'll do this my way."
> "And that is?"
Jack's eyes returned to the campfire, the way the guards moved — lazy, uncoordinated. They weren't expecting trouble.
> "We wait till dark. Then we go in."
> "And if we're caught?"
Jack's mouth curved into a grin, cold and sharp.
> "Then we make sure the only ones dying aren't us."
Lena swallowed hard, but nodded.
For the first time in years, Jack wasn't alone. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad. But the path forward was the same — soaked in danger, wrapped in ash.
And somewhere east, the Ashen Citadel still waited.
If it was real.