Chapter Text
The man moved quietly, shoulders hunched against the cold wind that funneled between the buildings. The city wasn’t silent—but it was subdued. A few scattered figures hurried along the sidewalks, heads down, making their way home before curfew locked the streets down. The old neon signs above the boarded-up shops flickered dimly, casting broken light onto the cracked pavement. Somewhere distant, a dog barked once, then went quiet. A drone buzzed overhead, its camera eye scanning, humming like an insect in the night.
A military truck rumbled past him, slow and heavy, the engine growling low like something alive and angry. It was one of the newer models—six wheels, armored plating, the KPA crest painted bold and proud on the doors. Inside, soldiers sat packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Their faces were unreadable behind masks, rifles resting across their laps. No one in the street looked at the truck as it passed. You learned not to. A glance could become suspicion. Suspicion could become a visit.
They ran things now—the KPA. Korean People's Army. But it wasn’t just them. Back in the 90s, it had started with the Russians pushing through Alaska, seizing the frozen north like it had always belonged to them. Paratroopers came down like ash along the East Coast—Boston, Philly, even Richmond. The Chinese and North Koreans hit the West, landing with naval invasions that smashed through California and up into Oregon. It all happened fast. Too fast.
By ‘96, it was over. The U.S. had spent decades fighting everyone else’s wars—spread too thin, bleeding strength from too many wounds. The final blow came in December, when the last government holdouts in D.C. surrendered to a joint Russian-Korean force. That was over a decade ago now. Since then, the flags had changed, the borders redrawn—but the scars remained.
The man stopped across the street from a run-down apartment building, its bricks worn and blackened from weather and time. He knew the place—knew who lived there. Or used to. The same truck he’d seen earlier was parked outside, engine still ticking quietly. The KPA soldiers were already inside. The front door hung open, barely attached to its hinges, kicked in with a boot or the butt of a rifle.
He lingered in the shadow of a lamppost, watching.
The stairwell lights inside flickered faintly. Boots clattered on metal steps, voices echoing up the narrow halls—short, clipped Korean, commands being passed down. A woman’s voice spoke in a hush from somewhere inside the building, low and nervous. A moment later, the volume rose—a man shouting something back, unintelligible through the walls. Then came the sound of drawers being yanked open, furniture moved, something heavy falling.
The man on the street didn’t flinch. He’d seen it before.
The soldiers weren’t there for no reason. When the KPA came with purpose, they never left empty-handed. Someone inside was either wanted or suspected. Maybe both. Maybe someone had been overheard, or some old link to the resistance had surfaced. Or maybe it was just bad luck—a name on a list, passed to the wrong officer at the wrong time.
He adjusted the scarf around his neck and kept still, watching as a beam of flashlight played briefly across a third-floor window. The light disappeared again. More footsteps. More voices.
He knew better than to linger too long. A foreign face caught loitering near an active raid was a question someone might want answered.
He turned, quietly slipping into the alley behind him. The building would be quiet again soon—one way or another.
The alley was narrow, choked with trash bins and the damp stench of rot. His boots echoed faintly as he moved through the shadows, just trying to get clear of the building. The cold bit into his fingers as he shoved them deeper into his coat pockets. Then he stopped—too late.
A figure stepped out from the side of a dumpster, rifle held casually across the chest. KPA. The soldier’s silhouette was unmistakable: helmet low over the brow, flak vest tight, rifle barrel catching the faint gleam of a streetlamp from behind. The man froze. He couldn’t turn around. No point in trying—the soldier had already seen him.
“Hey!” the soldier barked, voice rough, laced with an accent. “You! Come here.”
The man took a breath, forced himself to stay calm. He stepped forward, hands still visible, moving slow.
“Papers,” the soldier ordered, gesturing with the rifle.
The man nodded, trying to appear harmless, nonchalant. His fingers fumbled through the inner pocket of his coat. A beat of silence stretched too long, and he knew the soldier’s eyes were narrowing, weighing him up. Finally, he pulled out the folded paper—creased, worn at the edges—and held it out.
The soldier snatched it from his hand, eyes scanning it beneath a small flashlight clipped to his vest. The man’s name was printed at the top—James Henry Rollins. Date of birth: April 9th, 1988. Occupation: municipal services technician—a lie, but a consistent one. ID number. Zone of residence.
The soldier squinted. He mumbled something in Korean to himself, then looked back at the man.
“You work night shift?” he asked, haltingly.
“Yeah,” James said, nodding quickly. “Just got off. Heading home. Curfew’s close.”
The soldier grunted. Not quite believing. Not quite disbelieving. Just enough suspicion to make James’ spine go cold.
He stood there, breathing slow, watching the soldier flip the paper again. His heart thudded in his throat. And while his face stayed still, neutral, a war played out in his head. He could just wait. Just hope the soldier was in a decent mood—one of the few who didn’t want to make trouble. Maybe he’d hand back the papers, wave him off, tell him to go. That had happened before.
But then… there were the other stories.
He’d heard them whispered behind locked doors, in hushed voices around shared bottles—soldiers who made people disappear over bad paperwork, or a funny look, or simply because they could. Some never made it to a cell. Some didn’t even get questioned. Just gone.
James felt the handle of the knife in his coat pocket. He had pickpocketed it off a drunk mechanic outside a ration bar last week. Type II combat knife, he thought—looked Yugoslavian, but who knew. It was old. Heavy. A bit rusted near the hilt. But sharp. Sharp enough.
He didn’t want to use it. God, he really didn’t. Killing a man… that wasn’t something you came back from, not clean. But survival had a way of pushing everything else to the back of the line.
The soldier kept reading.
James shifted his weight slightly, positioning his feet. No sudden movements. Just in case.
There was still a chance. The soldier might just nod, grumble something, and wave him on.
Or he might not.
And if that rifle came up, if he even started to call it in—
James would strike.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
Because as scared as he was of killing someone, he was even more terrified of what might happen if he didn’t.
The soldier stared a moment longer, then finally grunted and handed the papers back with a flick of his glove.
“Go. Curfew soon,” he muttered, already turning away.
James didn’t wait for anything more. He stuffed the papers back into his coat and took off, walking fast until he turned the corner—then he ran. The sound of his boots on cracked pavement echoed in the narrow street, heart thudding harder now than it had during the whole encounter. He didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see the soldier watching him, or worse, changing his mind.
His apartment building stood five blocks down. He made it in three and a half.
It was a squat, six-story brick tombstone of a place, clinging to the edge of the city like it was too stubborn to fall over. Years of grime stained the outer walls. Windows were cracked or boarded. The front door had no lock—just a busted latch and a heavy cinder block someone had dragged in to keep it closed when the wind picked up.
Inside, the stairwell stank of mildew, piss, and old smoke. A single flickering bulb cast just enough light to show the rat droppings on the steps. He always joked that if you stepped wrong, you wouldn’t fall—you’d plunge. Straight to hell or Saint Peter, depending on how your luck went. But James had lived here long enough to know where the floorboards creaked, where the stairs bowed, where the handrail gave out. It was muscle memory now. One misstep, and your foot went straight through to the floor below, but he moved like someone who knew the dance by heart.
He was just two steps from his floor when he heard the low drawl behind him.
“Well, look who’s out past dark.”
He stopped. Turned.
Miss Jackson stood outside her door, arms crossed, wrapped in that same tattered gray shawl she wore year-round, like armor. Her hair was wrapped tight in a faded scarf, and her sharp eyes could cut through lies like razors through paper. She was in her seventies now, but her presence filled the hall like she was seven feet tall and holding court.
All James knew about her came from whispers and drunken confessions: born in Georgia, marched with the Panthers, threw a senator into the Mississippi after he called her “girl.” Might have even shot a man once. Nobody ever asked if that last one was true. Some things you don’t need confirmed.
“Evening, Miss Jackson,” James said, catching his breath. “Got held up.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, not moving from her spot. “Held up’s just what they’re lookin’ for at night. You look pale. You see somethin’?”
He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Just didn’t want to be out when the streetlights went off.”
She eyed him. Didn’t say anything for a second.
He reached into his coat, pulled out the small can of beans he’d swiped from a shipment crate two days ago and the half-loaf of flatbread he’d traded for a broken lighter. Held it out to her like an offering.
“For dinner,” he said.
Her expression didn’t change—but she took the can and the bread all the same.
“You ain’t stupid,” she said. “That’s why you’re still breathin’.”
“Tryin’ to keep it that way,” James replied.
She turned back toward her door, then looked at him over her shoulder.
“You ever do see somethin’… keep it to yourself. Or tell me. Don’t tell no one else.”
“I know.”
“Good,” she said. “Go on. You look like death ran you down and didn’t finish the job.”
James nodded and made for his door, fourth on the left. The lock was busted, but the door still jammed if you pulled it right. Inside, the air was cold and stale, but it was his. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing hard, trying to let the tension bleed out of his shoulders.
Another night survived. Just one more.
He looked out the window as the streetlights flickered and died, plunging the block into shadow. Curfew. And silence.
Welcome home.
James’s apartment wasn’t much—hell, most would say it wasn’t anything at all. It was the kind of place where everything worked on a hope and a prayer, and some days not even that. The fridge buzzed louder than a generator and only stayed cold if you wedged a brick behind the door. The heater coughed more than it heated, and the light in the bathroom flickered like it was trying to send Morse code. But the water ran, mostly, and the toilet flushed if you held the handle down just right. In this city, that made it luxury.
The couch doubled as a bed, and the stuffing had long since tried to escape through the seams. He’d patched it up with duct tape and the sleeve of an old coat. There were more blankets than furniture, and more empty cans than memories. He had a radio, too—shortwave, ancient—and sometimes if the weather was right, he could catch rebel broadcasts from across the river or some ghost station still playing jazz like the world hadn’t ended. Most nights it just hissed.
He didn't even really remember how he got the place. Won it in a poker game… or was it spades? Might’ve been some dice thrown behind a truck during a blackout. It had been months ago, maybe more. Time was slippery now. Between the curfews, the raids, the fear, and the endless gray of the city, days bled together until you only remembered the moments that hurt or saved you.
And he had his share of the former.
He reached up and rubbed the side of his head, fingers brushing the shallow dents in his scalp just behind the ear. Courtesy of a few KPA patrols who thought his papers looked “too clean” or that he didn’t answer fast enough. Rifle butts to the head were the new ID stamp. He used to just take it. Bite his tongue, take the hits, live another day. But there came a night—maybe two months back, maybe more—when something inside him snapped. After that, he started carrying the knife.
He’d pickpocketed it off a drunk soldier on the tram. Short thing, curved blade, no bigger than a steak knife. Yugoslavian maybe? He didn’t know—wasn’t a collector, wasn’t a soldier. Just knew it was sharp, easy to hide, and could go between ribs if he ever got that unlucky. He didn’t want to use it. But he’d heard enough stories—quiet disappearances, kids dragged from beds, neighbors vanishing with no knock or warning—to know that wanting to live outweighed any fear of what he’d have to do.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, pulling the blade from where he kept it taped under the table. Held it in his hands. Still clean. Still unused. That was a win.
For now.
James had tried—really tried—to get some sleep.
He’d pulled the threadbare blanket over himself, curled up on the couch like he always did, one hand instinctively resting near the taped underside of the coffee table where the knife waited. The apartment creaked and groaned as old buildings do, every sound making his body tense just enough to keep him from slipping into real rest. Outside, the wind howled down the alley like it had a score to settle, and every distant shout or stomp of boots made his eyelids twitch.
But eventually, exhaustion did what comfort couldn’t. His eyes drifted shut, and for a few short hours, he was gone.
Then came the blast.
It was sharp and sudden—BOOM—not thunder, not a transformer blowing, but something violent and close. The window panes rattled in their frames, dust came loose from the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs a dog started barking like mad. James bolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs. The glow from the moon outlined everything in blue and shadow, but outside the horizon flashed orange-red, lighting the clouds like a sunrise made of fire.
“Shit,” James muttered, rubbing the sleep from his face.
Another strike. Probably the partisans again. They’d been hitting soft convoys lately—trucks, patrols, sometimes even parked staff cars if they were feeling bold. It was chaos, but it was their chaos. A middle finger to the occupation.
Then the loudspeakers kicked in, crackling to life like a bad memory. They were mounted on every lamppost, every street corner, every government building and patrol checkpoint. Installed by the KPA six years ago, and now as constant as the cold.
A man's voice—nasally, rehearsed, and ever-smug—echoed across the neighborhood in garbled, accented English:
“Attention citizens. A criminal act of sabotage has occurred in Sector Nine. Do not approach. Remain in your homes. All known resistance members are enemies of peace and stability.”
James sighed, rolling onto his back and staring at the cracked ceiling.
“To those responsible for this attack… surrender now. Lay down your weapons and you will be treated with fairness and dignity. Your lives will be spared. There is still hope for you under the New Order.”
From down the hall, clear as day through the thin walls, came Miss Jackson’s voice:
“Bullshit,” she cackled. “That boy they ‘spared’ last week? Ain’t nobody seen him since. That’s some ‘dignity’ alright.”
James smirked despite himself. Her voice, dry and weathered, had the bite of someone who had seen it all and didn’t give a damn anymore.
He rolled over again, pulling the blanket back up, trying to block out the speaker, the city, the war.
“Hope my windows don’t blow out this time,” he murmured to no one.
The speakers kept droning, but he let the words blur. He couldn’t stop the noise, or the war, or the lying broadcast, but if he didn’t sleep, tomorrow would kill him faster than a KPA patrol.
He closed his eyes and tried again, heart still thudding, ears still tuned to every thump outside—but clinging to the tiny pocket of calm he'd managed to carve out in this crumbling, haunted place he called home.
Morning came like a slow punch to the jaw—dull, unwanted, and way too early.
James stood in the cramped corner of his kitchen, squaring off with his ancient coffee maker like it had personally insulted him. The damn thing hissed, sputtered, and blinked its single red light with the smug indifference of a bureaucrat behind bulletproof glass. He smacked the side of it. Nothing.
“If murderin’ appliances was legal,” he muttered, “you’d be first. Right behind that toaster that burns one side and undercooks the other.”
He jiggled the pot, kicked the base, pressed the button three more times. Finally, it gave a reluctant gurgle and began coughing out what might generously be called coffee. He leaned on the counter, eyes half-closed, waiting for enough liquid strength to face the outside world.
Because staying inside all day? That was suspicious. KPA patrols didn’t like it when your name wasn’t on a shift roster, or you weren’t out trying to scavenge or trade. If you were home too long, they started thinking maybe you were hiding something—or worse, someone.
So he grabbed his jacket, slipped the knife into the lining like always, and stepped out into the hallway, already hearing movement on the stairs. It was Miss Jackson.
She was a presence. Gray dreadlocks tied back with a red scarf, eyes sharp as broken glass, coat full of more pockets than you could count—and a cane that had seen more violence than most soldiers. She was halfway to the steps, hand bracing the railing, but her legs weren’t what they used to be.
She turned her head and barked, “Hey, boy. Get over here. Help me down these damn stairs—I got shit and stuff to do.”
James smirked, walking over and offering his arm. “Shit and stuff, huh? That sound official or just urgent?”
She snorted. “You know Karen’s kids? Third floor?”
“Yeah, I know ’em.”
“Well, that oldest boy done got himself hooked on that garbage them little rats been sellin’ on the block. Ain’t no son of this building goin’ out like that. I’m gonna run they sorry asses back to whatever hole they came from.”
James blinked. “You… you’re gonna go deal with the dealers?”
She shot him a look like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Damn right I am. I didn’t throw a senator in the goddamn river just to sit here while some little dope-peddling pissants ruin another generation.”
He shook his head, half impressed, half concerned. “You want me to come with?”
She waved the cane like a saber. “Nah. If I need help, you’ll hear it from three blocks down. Just make sure my plants don’t die if I don’t come back by supper.”
James let out a low whistle and walked her carefully down the steps, one slow step at a time. The city outside was cold and tense as usual, the air thick with diesel and dust. But inside that stairwell, for a brief moment, there was something else—resilience.
“Just don’t go starting a war,” James said as they reached the bottom.
Miss Jackson grinned without humor. “Honey, the war started years ago. I’m just making sure they remember who still fights back.”
James stepped outside just in time to catch the echo of thunder overhead—not the weather kind, but the kind made of afterburners and metal teeth. He looked up.
Jets—three of them—cut across the gray morning sky, fast and low enough to rattle the rusted-out window panes all along the block. Sleek silhouettes against the washed-out clouds, but he couldn’t tell whose they were. Korean? Russian? Maybe Chinese? Hell, they all looked the same from this angle—same black paint, same faded insignia. They didn’t fly with colors anymore, just fear. Let the peasants guess.
He watched them disappear behind the buildings, contrails already breaking apart in the breeze like cigarette smoke.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes still on the sky, then muttered, “Guess someone’s getting a visit.”
His plan for the day wasn’t glamorous—bullshit his way onto a work detail, maybe hauling bricks or clearing rubble for the hundredth time. Something official enough to keep the KPA off his ass, something mindless enough he could fade into the background. With luck, he’d land a spot where the guards weren’t too sharp and maybe score a couple extra ration cards for “enthusiasm.” That was the trick—play the game just long enough to be useful, then vanish before they started asking too many questions.
James wasn’t stupid. He knew what happened to folks who got sloppy, who got greedy too fast. Re-education camps if you were lucky. A bullet to the face if you weren’t.
He liked to wait a week or two between lifting anything—small stuff, tools, maybe a water chip, once a watch. Nothing big enough to be noticed right away. That was the dance: blend in, smile when they bark orders, give them just enough obedience to keep the boots off your neck.
He adjusted his coat, felt the knife tucked against his ribs, and headed down the cracked sidewalk. The city had the quiet of exhaustion to it—windows shuttered, people keeping their heads down, kids not playing, just watching. Like they all knew something was coming. Or maybe that was just how life was now. Always waiting for the next raid, the next bang, the next name crossed off a door.
James scratched at the back of his neck and kept walking. Time to go “volunteer.” Time to play good little collaborator until the moment was right.
After all, survival wasn’t about bravery. It was about patience. And James was a damn patient man.
James spotted the hotel the second he turned the corner. It towered over the rest of the street like a ghost of the old world, its fancy stone columns and gold-trimmed windows dulled by soot and time. Half the roof was gone, probably from a missile or shell sometime in the first few years after the surrender. But the front doors still held their polish, and the big chandelier in the lobby—now missing most of its crystals—still caught enough sun to throw dim rainbows onto the cracked tile floor.
He paused just long enough to take it in. A place like this? Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have even made it past the valet. He would've been that guy the staff gave side-eye to as they locked the front doors behind important guests. Now here he was, about to mop piss off marble floors and clear out whatever corpse or rat nest was rotting in the presidential suite.
But it wasn’t the hotel that caught his eye—it was the crew. More specifically, the man yelling at a group of guys hauling busted-up chairs out of the lobby: Peterson.
James smiled to himself. Now that was luck.
Peterson wasn’t just some foreman. Everyone with half a brain knew he ran a side hustle—stuff that “fell off” supply trucks or disappeared from storage rooms. Blank ration cards, batteries, medicine, even a rifle once. Word was, some of that gear had ended up in partisan hands. Gear that later helped turn a KPA convoy into twisted metal on the freeway last month.
James walked up like he belonged there, casual, hands in his coat pockets. Peterson didn’t notice him at first, too busy barking at some kid to quit dragging the furniture.
“Need a hand, boss?” James said, loud enough to be heard but not suspicious.
Peterson turned, squinting. “We full. Try the lot down on Pine.”
James stepped closer, let his tone drop. “C’mon, Pete. I’m a hard worker. And I’m real good at keeping my mouth shut.”
That made Peterson pause. He looked James over. “Do I know you?”
“Not officially,” James said, smiling. “But I know you. I know how some of that inventory you lost ended up in the hands of people who like to blow shit up. Lot of bodies on the road last week. Pretty sure one of ‘em still had a crate with your stamp on it.”
Peterson’s jaw clenched. “You accusing me of something?”
James leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “No. I’m saying you and I both know I ain’t the type to tell anyone anything. But I’d sure love a mop and a couple hours of honest work. Maybe a few ration cards. You help me, and I don’t have to remember that little detail.”
Peterson looked around. KPA weren’t nearby, just a couple guards down the street smoking and pretending to be intimidating. He looked back at James, his lip curling like he wanted to punch him—but he didn’t.
“You get on the fourth floor,” he muttered. “Toilets are backed up. You bitch, and I’ll have you hauling bodies instead.”
James grinned. “Sounds fair.”
As he grabbed a bucket and started toward the service stairs, he didn’t look back. He wouldn’t actually rat on Peterson. Hell, if it came down to it, he’d probably get dragged down right along with him. But that’s how it worked now—mutually assured destruction, Cold War-style, just with mops and rifles instead of nukes.
You didn’t win by being clean. You survived by being dirty in just the right ways.
The fourth floor smelled like sewage and stale water. James had to breathe through his mouth as he stepped over a broken “Out of Order” sign lying in the hallway, its corners curled like old bread. The hotel’s luxury had long since rotted—what was once a marble-tiled hallway with velvet wallpaper now looked like the aftermath of a flood in a mausoleum.
The bathroom door was already propped open with a soaked mop handle. Inside, a guy was crouched by one of the stalls, sleeves rolled up, plunging a toilet like he was trying to beat it to death. He was tall, maybe in his early thirties, with a shaved head and sleeves of faded tattoos disappearing under a worn utility jacket. Didn’t even look up when James entered.
James grabbed the other plunger from the bucket outside and started on the next stall, stepping over a puddle that was definitely more than just water. The two of them worked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the wet slap of plungers, the occasional hiss of rusted pipes, and a faint rumble of trucks outside the broken windows.
After about twenty minutes, the other guy finally broke the quiet.
“You buy the KPA’s bullshit?”
James didn’t look up. “What bullshit?”
“You know. The whole 'we’re here to help,' 'we liberated you from imperialism,' 'we’re building a better America' crap.”
James kept his eyes on the toilet as he replied with the same answer anyone with a brain gave when asked a question like that: “They feed us. Keep the streets from turning to total chaos. Could be worse.”
It was a tired line—just enough praise to sound loyal, just vague enough not to commit.
The guy chuckled, low and dry. “Good answer. Real safe.”
James glanced at him. The guy had stopped plunging and was just staring into the toilet like it had spoken to him.
“You ever wonder,” the man continued, “how many of those trucks full of rice are just there to keep us too busy chewing to fight?”
James shrugged. “You from around here?”
“Nah. Grew up near Detroit. Was in New York when it all went down. Saw the paratroopers drop on Long Island. Thought it was a movie until one of 'em shot my neighbor in the chest.”
The silence stretched a bit after that. The smell suddenly felt stronger.
The man stood up, wiped his hands on a rag. “Not all of us got used to being told what to do. Some of us still got teeth.”
James stared at him a little longer now. The way he’d said it—it wasn’t just talk. Or maybe it was. That was the problem. You never knew anymore. Real partisans didn’t advertise it, but sometimes they hinted, just enough to test the waters. The KPA used that too—plants, informants playing the role of angry rebels to bait the careless or the desperate.
“Sounds dangerous,” James said quietly.
The man met his eyes for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Only if you’re stupid about it.”
He went back to work, plunging again like it was just another day.
James kept his head down, but his mind was spinning. He didn’t know if the guy was full of shit or not—a real partisan or just another rat trying to sniff out anyone who’d slip. But in this world, doubt was as lethal as certainty. One wrong answer could get you a hood over your head and a ride to one of the reeducation facilities out by the old airfields.
So he said nothing else. Just kept working.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the shattered skyline, work was finally over. The cleaning crew shuffled back into the lobby of the old hotel like a line of ghosts, the stink of bleach and mildew clinging to their clothes like smoke. Peterson stood by the main desk—what used to be marble was now chipped and dust-covered, a rusted lantern bolted to the top for light—flipping through a box of ration cards with the bored efficiency of a man who'd done this too many times.
He didn’t say much as he handed them out. Just called out names. Didn’t even look James in the eye when he handed over his card, just grunted something that might’ve been “Here” and kept moving down the list. James didn’t take it personal. Peterson never looked anyone in the eye unless he wanted something—or was deciding whether to sell you out.
The ration card was thin and laminated, stamped with the symbol of the “Pacific Reconstruction Authority,” which meant it was good in Korean and Chinese sectors, not Russian. That mattered. The Russians were stingier, more likely to “lose” shipments or blame empty shelves on rebels. James tucked the card into his inner coat pocket like it was a winning lottery ticket.
Next stop: the food line.
It stretched down four blocks outside the central depot, weaving past crumbling buildings and guarded intersections. The sky was going orange when James got there, and still he waited. Two hours, give or take. Half that time was spent standing. The other half was slowly shuffling forward, listening to the hum of drones overhead and the bark of orders from KPA soldiers in black body armor.
When he finally reached the front, the woman behind the counter barely looked up. She scanned his card, handed over a thin sack—rice, beans, canned soup, a few stale energy bars, and if luck was on your side, a tube of that processed meat paste that tasted like sadness and salt. Enough to survive for another month, maybe two if he rationed like a saint or got creative.
By the time he climbed the cracked stairs back up to his floor, his legs were aching and his nerves fried. The door to his apartment was slightly ajar, and as he stepped inside, he saw her.
Miss Jackson was sitting in the hallway just outside her place, slumped against the peeling wall, her left eye swelling, blood dried beneath one nostril, lip split down the center like a busted tire. She held a damp rag to her face, and when she saw him, she grinned through the mess.
“Damn,” James muttered, setting his sack down. “You alright?”
Miss Jackson just chuckled, hoarse and low. “I’m fine, baby. You should see them.”
James knelt beside her. “What happened?”
She wiped a bit of blood from her chin, shrugged like it was just another Wednesday. “Them boys ain’t used to someone knockin’ the hustle off their corner. One’s missin’ a few teeth. One might be dead. Still breathin’ when I left him though.”
James blinked. “Jesus…”
Miss Jackson leaned back against the wall, eyes closed now. “Ain’t no one gonna feed that child but his mama. She busy cryin’ ‘bout how the world changed, so I figured I’d remind her what the old one looked like.”
James didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, resting against the opposite wall.
“Want some soup?” he asked after a while.
She cracked a smile, a little blood on her teeth. “Depends. That the beef one or the bullshit one?”
“Bullshit,” he said.
She nodded. “Figures.”
They ended up in his apartment not long after, both easing down into mismatched chairs at the old fold-out table by the cracked window. The place smelled like instant noodles and old wood, with the radiator rattling in the corner like it was one good shake away from dying for good. Two bowls of what claimed to be chicken flavor sat steaming between them—watery, salty, barely enough to be called a meal, but hot food was hot food these days.
James slouched in his seat, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, slowly eating like he was trying to make it last. Miss Jackson, despite the busted lip and the swelling around her nose, still carried herself like someone who never once thought about backing down from a fight. She moved carefully, wincing now and then, but with a steady hand that spoke of experience.
Midway through the meal, she set her spoon down and gave him a long sideways glance. “Been wonderin’ something,” she said. “Why you so nice to me, James? Always helpin’ me with groceries, bringing food, keeping me company. You ain’t gotta do all that.”
James gave a half-shrug, not looking up from his bowl. “Because you’re decent. And you’re probably the closest thing I’ve got to a mom.”
That got her attention. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.” He poked at a soggy noodle. “Don’t remember mine much. Never met my dad. Mom was seventeen, got pregnant, and her folks were old-school Catholics. They threw her out. She didn’t make it—didn’t survive the birth. After that, I got tossed around the system. Couple foster homes. Some worse than others.”
Miss Jackson let out a long breath, her shoulders relaxing a bit. She leaned back, the light from the window catching the bruises on her face. “Bless your heart.”
James looked up, one brow raised. “Ain’t that usually sarcastic?”
She chuckled, lips tugging into a smile that half-split the scab on her lip. “Depends. Most Southern sayings got two meanings. ‘Bless your heart’ can mean ‘I’m sorry’ or it can mean ‘you poor dumb fool.’ Sometimes both.”
He smirked. “So which one was that?”
Her grin widened, bruises and all. “Little bit of both, sugar.”
Outside, the city groaned—sirens far off, maybe a patrol truck rumbling down cracked asphalt. But inside, in their cramped little corner of the world, everything was still. The kind of stillness that came after a long storm, even if you knew more were coming.
James leaned back in his chair, spoon still in hand. “Thanks.”
Miss Jackson looked at him. “For what?”
“For not treatin’ me like some lost cause.”
She shook her head. “Ain’t nothin’ lost about you. You’re just trying to live. Same as me.”
They finished the rest in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty—just quiet, steady. Like two people who’d both seen enough to understand when words weren’t needed.
The empty bowls had been pushed to the side, forgotten as the two of them sat in the soft yellow glow of the old lamp by the window. James had his feet kicked up on a milk crate, his fingers spinning a bent spoon between them. Miss Jackson, wrapped in a worn shawl and holding a lukewarm cup of tea like it was fine brandy, sat opposite him in the old recliner that didn’t recline anymore.
The city hummed outside—a distant dog barking, the occasional siren wailing two blocks over, jets overhead—and inside, the apartment was filled with something rarer than peace: conversation without purpose.
“You ever see a Fed raid up close?” James asked, rubbing his thumb over a scar on the back of his hand. “Like, real close? I was maybe ten when it happened. Foster family number three. House was quiet—too quiet, now that I think back—and then, boom. Front door kicked in. Whole place flooded with those big guys in helmets and goggles, screaming at everyone to hit the floor.”
Miss Jackson raised a brow. “Lord. What’d they do?”
James shrugged. “Hell if I know. Might’ve been drugs. Or guns. Or something dumber, like taxes. I just remember one of 'em stepping on my comic book and telling me to shut up while he cuffed the foster dad.”
She sipped her tea. “Ain’t that always the way,” she muttered, voice like warm gravel. “Whole damn system built on steppin’ on little folks’ things.”
He chuckled. “Never even got that comic back.”
She gave him a look—half sympathy, half tired amusement—then leaned back and exhaled. “You ever hear how I ended up with this bum knee?” she asked, tapping it lightly with her palm.
James shook his head. “Nope. Thought maybe it was age.”
“Boy, please,” she scoffed. “Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Nah. This was back when I was still with the Panthers. Way before your time. ’71 or ’72. My baby sister had herself a husband—mean son of a bitch. Treated her like she was some piece of furniture. Hit her, shoved her around in front of folks. Nobody said nothin’. Back then, that kind of mess was considered ‘a private family matter.’”
James winced. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I wasn’t about to let that slide. So I went over there one night. Alone. Told him plain as I could: he had two choices. Leave my sister and disappear, or stay and I’d put him in the dirt.”
James raised his eyebrows. “What’d he pick?”
She smiled—but not the warm kind. The kind that was all teeth and memory. “He picked wrong. Got all puffed up like a rooster, started yelling. Came at me with a goddamn belt in his hand. I shot him in the knee.”
“Jesus,” James said.
“He lived,” she said, shrugging. “Hobbles around like a drunk raccoon now, but he’s alive. Didn’t raise his hand to another woman after that. I made sure he understood.”
The room was quiet for a beat. James scratched his chin. “You ever regret it?”
“Hell no,” she said, and meant it. “I regret not doing it sooner. Maybe if more folks stepped up like that, fewer women’d end up in hospitals or in coffins.”
James nodded slowly. “Yeah. That tracks.”
They fell into a companionable silence again, both staring out the window. The streetlights flickered and buzzed. Somewhere down the block, a bottle shattered.
James finally muttered, “Wish someone had done that for my mom.”
Miss Jackson didn’t say anything right away. Then she reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze.
“I know, baby,” she said softly. “But you’re here now. And you’re doin’ alright.”
And for a while, neither of them said a word.
The night had been a rare gift—quiet, still, and uninterrupted. No distant gunfire, no sudden explosions, no propaganda echoing through rusted speakers on every corner. Just silence. James had crashed out on his couch with an old blanket barely covering him, the kind of dead-to-the-world sleep that only came once in a while, when the city held its breath.
Miss Jackson had gone back to her apartment after dinner, giving him her usual “See you when the Lord or the KPA allow” line, which he found both funny and grimly accurate. He'd chuckled and muttered a “Goodnight,” and before long, the weight of the day had dragged him under.
Then, at exactly six in the goddamn morning, his door exploded.
The frame cracked, hinges screamed, and the whole door slammed to the floor with a sound that jolted every nerve in his body. Before James even sat up, two KPA soldiers were on him, yanking him off the couch like he was nothing. His shoulder hit the floor as he struggled, the air knocked out of him in one hard breath.
“What the hell!” he gasped, twisting as another soldier stormed in and began tearing the apartment apart—pulling open drawers, flipping cushions, sweeping everything off shelves.
James blinked hard through the bright light of a flashlight blasting his face.
“What do you want?” he croaked.
A figure stepped into view—KPA officer, you could tell right away. The uniform was cleaner, darker, the gloves a pristine white, and the eyes... the kind of eyes that could look at a man and see nothing but a threat or a task.
“Not your business,” the officer said calmly, like this was just his morning routine.
Then came the voice from across the room. “Found something.”
James turned his head toward the sound, stomach already sinking. The soldier pulled out a sheathed combat knife—the KPA Type II. Sleek. Standard-issue. And, stupidly, something James had lifted off a KPA patrolman weeks ago. Not from a body. From a living, breathing soldier. A bump in a crowd, fast fingers, a rush of adrenaline. Dumb. He’d meant to ditch it. Forgot.
The soldier handed it to the officer, who took it between two fingers like it was a dead rat. “There a reason you’re in possession of KPA property?” he asked, tone even but deadly.
James tried to lie through it. “I bought it. From some guy near the market. Figured it was off the books. Just a knife, man.”
The officer raised an eyebrow slowly, like he’d heard that same story a hundred times. “Surplus, huh? Did this ‘some guy’ also sell uniforms, radios, maybe a tank?”
James kept his mouth shut after that.
They dragged him through the hallway, shirt twisted, socks half-on, wrists gripped tight. His neighbors were already watching. Doors cracked open. Eyes wide. Nobody said a word.
Miss Jackson stood at the end of the hall, a faded robe pulled tight over her frame, bruises still dark around her face from the day before. Her jaw tightened when she saw him. Her lips parted, like she was about to shout something.
He caught her gaze and gave a tiny shake of his head.
Please. Don’t.
If she opened her mouth, they’d shoot her before she got the second word out. He saw it in her eyes—she wanted to do something, anything. But she didn’t. And as much as that hurt, he was grateful. He couldn’t live with her blood on his hands.
Outside, they tossed him into the back of a waiting truck like trash. There were already others in there—ten, maybe fifteen people. All looking like they’d been pulled from their lives without warning.
The doors slammed shut, sealing them in. James leaned back against the cold steel, eyes closed, jaw tight.
He should’ve ditched the damn knife. Not tried to be clever. Not tried to hold on to anything that made him feel like he still had control.
That’s how they got you. Not with warning. Not with a trial. Just a boot through your door and a ride to nowhere.