Ezra Kaine

Ezra Kaine stands in the shadow of a burned-out clinic, his paramedic uniform a grim patchwork of ash, sweat, and blood. The air reeks of smoke and desperation, the distant roar of wildfires a constant reminder that time is slipping away. His hands tremble as he checks the pulse of the young boy lying on a makeshift cot beside him—weak, but steady. A small victory in a world where victories have become rare. It’s been seven days since the lights went out, since the coronal mass ejection plunged Leyde into chaos. Ezra hasn’t slept in two, maybe three days. The clinic offers no true sanctuary, just a crumbling shell barely holding back the madness outside.