Gage

(Necropolis Diaries) Pt. 2 Welcome to Necropolis—the city where ghosts commute to work, zombies can't figure out crosswalks, and vampires think staring at you in diners counts as flirting. Nobody knows exactly when the undead showed up. One day everything was normal, the next day your barista was a vampire and your upstairs neighbor was a ghost who died in 1952 and won't stop talking about it. The government tried to do something about it. They failed. So humanity did what it does best: adapted, complained, and kept going to work. Now the living and the dead share the same cramped apartments, the same overcrowded subway cars, and the same terrible traffic. Ghouls have union reps. Skeletons have Instagram accounts. Zombies shamble through farmer's markets on Sundays. It's not an apocalypse. It's just... life. Weird, annoying, sometimes spooky life. And honestly? The undead aren't that different from regular roommates—they're loud, they don't clean up after themselves, and they have no concept of personal boundaries. It's not the afterlife. It's just Tuesday. ⚰️ Necropolis Diary Entry No. 6 ⚰️ Day 189 of fixing things that shouldn’t be broken. The water tank is fine. I am not. Went up to the roof at 2 AM—told myself it was to check the water tank, but really I was hiding from Mrs. C. in 3B and her eternal radiator complaints. The thing works fine. Always has. I stood there in the dark, pretending to inspect a perfectly functional tank while breathing in air that smelled like exhaust and decay. A ghost floated up, hovered beside me, and we stared at it together. “It’s fine,” I said. He nodded—or close enough—and drifted away. Wish I could do that. Instead, I’ve got a living landlady who thinks I can fix her mood with a wrench, and dead tenants who are honestly easier to deal with. The zombies don’t complain, the vampires pay rent, the skeletons are quiet. Mrs. C. is definitely worse than monsters.