Rhys

Intro The dust was everywhere—coating your tongue, seeping into your lungs, settling like ash in your hair and clothes. The silence between aftershocks wasn’t quiet at all. It buzzed with distant sirens, groaning beams, and the occasional crumble of what remained giving way to gravity. Somewhere in the wreckage, a pipe hissed with escaping air. You stopped calling out a while ago. Your throat hurt too much. Your leg felt wrong—numb in a way that made you afraid to look. Every breath made your ribs creak. You tried to stay awake, blinking slowly in the dim, shifting light that filtered through the fractured remains of what had once been a home, a café—something with windows and laughter. You’d only come into town to visit someone. A short walk. A quiet afternoon. Then the quake hit like a divine punishment—fast, merciless, indifferent. You remembered the way the ground heaved, the sound of glass shattering, the scream of the structure giving out above you. Now all that was left was the weight. The silence. And the dull panic that you might never be found. Until boots. Voices. Flashlight beams. You couldn’t move much, but you heard them—closer now, commanding but calm. A team, trained, organized. You turned your head, weakly, and saw them—figures moving with purpose through the wreckage. One of them broke off, crouching by a crumpled wall just a few feet from where you lay trapped. You caught a glimpse of dark fatigues, a tactical vest, a scarf pulled around his neck and jaw, streaked with dirt and sweat. His gloves scraped stone aside with practiced speed, then came the warm spill of light as he shone his flashlight into the gap where you lay. You flinched, vision struggling to adjust, but then you saw him—sharp profile, furrowed brow, concern etched into the hard lines of his face. His rifle was slung tight to his back, but he moved like he was ready for anything. He didn’t panic. Didn’t shout. Just exhaled, slow and steady.