Chapter 3 – A Moment of Weakness

  It hit him like a slap to the face. The air around him buzzed, but not in the way it used to. This was different. The system — whatever the hell it was — had just activated after he killed one of the invaders. The damn thing had come to life when he finally took action. It was like... like someone was watching him now.

  He gritted his teeth, glaring at the translucent screen that had appeared to his right.

  Syncing...

  The words flashed across the screen, glowing faintly. And with them came the crushing feeling that he wasn’t alone in this anymore. That whatever was out there — it was watching.

  “It’s like we’re in someone’s damn game now.” He muttered under his breath, fury clawing at him. He cursed at the screen like it owed him something, like he could make it go away with enough hatred.

  But it stayed there. Unmoved. Unforgiving.

  He could feel it. A cold, biting sensation creeping through his bones.

  Initiating sequence...

  Pain. No — agony. It tore through his body, cold and reckless, like ice inside his veins. He gasped, clutching his arms, biting back a scream as the sensation rampaged through him. It felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. The pain wasn’t just physical. It was like something was carving its way through his mind, too.

  The pain slowly receded, but something else lingered in the air.

  Targets exterminated. The message flickered across the screen, followed by:

  Knights of the Dark Vigil x 1

  Points gained: 10

  Total points: 10

  He couldn’t move for a second. His mind was too scrambled. He stared at the screen in disbelief. It didn’t feel real. Hell, none of this felt real.

  The words swam before his eyes, cold and detached. A wave of nausea rose in his throat. This wasn't a game.

  But instinct kicked in. The screen blinked, and he made it disappear with nothing but a thought, like it was nothing more than a bad dream.

  But that damn message lingered in his mind. What the hell was going on?

  The dead knight lay before him, its twisted, rotting body a reminder of how far things had gone. His hand instinctively reached out to touch the sword in his grip, a reminder of the violence he'd just committed. He took one last look at the knight, but his focus soon shifted.

  The resident’s list board was just up ahead. He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. He squeezed between the barricades, pushing forward toward the stairs.

  The screen flickered one last time before fading, the words syncing still burning behind his eyes like an afterimage burned into his retinas. The weight of it lingered. Not just the words—but the feeling. Of being watched. Of being... watched.

  Conner didn’t trust it. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t come to save them. It came after he killed that knight. That thing.

  Like some sick reward.

  There was no time to unravel the horror of what he’d just done. No time to question the cruel new rules of this world. Because as the flickering light faded, and he took that first step toward the building—toward his home—he realized something chilling.

  Just getting back here wasn’t enough.

  He turned the corner up the stairwell, his boots thudding hard against the stone. Every step faster. Every heartbeat louder. Until he slammed into the barricaded hallway and saw the door. His door. His family.

  “Uncle!” he cried out. “Jane!”

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  Before he could yell again, the door flung open—and a pair of arms wrapped around him.

  Conner…!” Jane launched herself at him the moment the door opened, her small arms wrapping around his waist with surprising strength. Dried tear tracks streaked her pale cheeks, and a raw grief emanated from her like a physical presence. “You made it back, kid! You did good. You did real good,” Rick’s voice cracked, his own arms joining Jane’s in a tight, trembling embrace. For a moment, the dam inside Conner broke. The fear, the tension, the rage – it all poured out in ragged sobs into his uncle’s shoulder as he clutched them both.

  They pulled apart, and Conner’s gaze found Jane’s. Her eyes, though filled with the relief of his return, held a deep, shadowed pain. “She… she’s not here,” Jane whispered, her voice cracking, small and full of unbearable heartbreak. As she spoke, the faint light that had flickered in her eyes at the sight of him seemed to dim, the color leaching away, leaving them dull and hollow. A fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands, her small body shaking with renewed sobs. “Mom… she didn’t come back.”

  Conner’s stomach plummeted. The fragile warmth in his chest turned to ice. A sharp, sickening dread took its place. Fear, cold and paralyzing, washed over him.

  His head swam.

  The words cut through him, sharper than any blade. For a moment, the world around him faded—and he was back in the kitchen two mornings ago, watching Aunt Cathy hum to herself as she poured tea into chipped mugs, scolding him playfully for skipping breakfast again.

  "You’ll shrivel up, boy. Can’t save the world on an empty stomach."

  Then the warmth was gone. And all that remained was blood on his shirt and Jane’s heart-wrenching cries.

  “She was at the office, right?” he asked slowly, his voice strained, trying to piece together the fragmented reality.

  Rick looked at him—but something in his face had changed. Pale. Defeated. He looked... guilty. Like he’d been carrying a weight too heavy for too long.

  “We… we have to do something!” Conner snapped, voice cracking. “Where is she?! Why hasn’t she come back?”

  “Conner, I—” Rick faltered. His hands clenched into fists. “She’s all the way across town.”

  “Then I’ll go.”

  Rick’s face darkened. “No. Don’t say that.”

  Just then, a weak voice, thick with unshed tears, drifted from where Jane sat huddled against the wall. “Conner… please. Don’t go. It’s… it’s not safe.” It was Cathy, her name a ghost on Jane’s lips, the absence echoing in the small apartment.

  Rick’s face crumpled. “Your grandmother's in shock! She hasn’t spoken a word since this started, and Jane—look at her! I can’t leave them! I can’t—” He dropped to his knees, his shoulders shaking. “I can’t even step outside that goddamn door. I can’t...”

  Conner stared at him. His chest ached. A part of him hated seeing his strong uncle broken. But another part… understood the primal fear that could paralyze. He remembered the crawl through filth, the blood on his hands, the finality in the knight’s vacant eyes.

  His jaw clenched.

  He bit down hard on his lip.

  Then his eyes locked onto a knife on the counter.

  The memory of the man outside, the one who’d saved him with just a blade—that image seared itself into his mind.

  He rushed to the kitchen, snatched the knife, grabbed a bag, filled it with water bottles, and slung it over his shoulder.

  “I’m going.”

  Rick turned, panic lacing his voice. “Conner! No! Did you not see what’s out there?! Did you forget already? Cathy wouldn't want you to throw your life away!”

  “I haven’t forgotten a second of it.” Conner didn’t raise his voice. “She’s still alive. I’ll bring her back. I have to.”

  Rick grabbed his shoulder, his grip tight, desperate. But then he saw his nephew’s eyes—calm, steady, and filled with a terrible certainty. There would be no convincing him.

  “I can’t lose anyone else, Conner…”

  “You haven’t. Not yet.”

  Conner turned. Jane remained curled against the wall, lost in her grief, her small hands still clutching the bloodstained fabric of his shirt. The faint echo of Cathy’s plea hung in the air.

  He stepped out, closing the door behind him gently.

  Down the stairs again. Past the darkness. Toward the barricade.

  The two men from before—John and Porter—were still there.

  “You’re not thinking of going back out there, are you?” John asked. His voice was gravelly, tired. “You just crawled out of that hell alive. You wanna jump right back in? There's easier ways to die, kid.”

  Conner paused.

  He looked at them with a tired, forced smile. “Thanks. You saved my life. Because of you, I got to see my family again.”

  Then he walked forward.

  They didn’t stop him.

  Something in his eyes told them they couldn’t.

  He stepped beyond the barricade. It was barely holding as it was. The stink of death and smoke wafted in with the breeze.

  Conner leaned down over the body of the knight he’d killed.

  Its strange armor now dulled with blood, the weapon he’d used to end it just inches away.

  He picked it up. The grip was slick, heavy in his hand. But it felt right. The blade was heavy, poorly balanced, and still stained with coagulated blood—but when he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, it felt... honest.

  Not a weapon of heroes. A weapon of survivors.

  Just before window faded from his mind, a faint blinking icon pulsed in the corner—barely visible, like a red light behind fogged glass.

  [OBSERVERS ACTIVE:1]

  He stared. Then it was gone.

  Whatever it meant... it wasn’t meant to reassure him.

  The sun bled into the horizon, drowning the city in crimson shadows.

  Conner clenched the stolen weapon in his hand, jaw tight, heart louder than his steps.

  This was the beginning.

  Not of hope—

  But of whatever came after despair.