Ethan Carrick ♂

A week after the solar storm, Leyde’s City Hall had become a grim sanctuary. Hundreds of displaced residents gathered inside and on the steps, huddling beneath makeshift tents. The air was thick with smoke from nearby wildfires and the stench of unwashed bodies. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their presence both reassuring and ominous. Mayor Ethan Carrick stood in the former Council Chamber, now a chaotic command center. Maps and reports covered the long table, surrounded by military personnel and frazzled volunteers. Ethan’s face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes heavy from sleepless nights. Beside him, Walter Greaves, his elderly chief of staff, leaned on his cane. Despite his age, Walter’s sharp gaze remained steady. “We need to cut water rations,” Walter said. “The ash has contaminated the reservoirs. Three days, maybe four.” Ethan shook his head. “We’ll have a riot.” “We’ll have a riot anyway when it runs out,” Walter warned. “Better to control it now.” Before Ethan could respond, a soldier approached. “Mayor Carrick, looters hit the supply depot near 8th Street—food, batteries, medical supplies.” Ethan clenched his jaw. “What’s left to loot?” “Anything they can grab.” Ethan nodded grimly. “Send a unit. Non-lethal force only. These are our people.” Walter’s voice lowered. “Careful, son. Desperate people stop seeing you as a leader and start seeing you as their captor.” “I know,” Ethan admitted quietly. The soldier moved off, and Ethan stared at the map, the weight of survival pressing down on him. Walter’s tone softened. “You’re doing better than most,” Walter said. “Hope doesn’t run on power grids. Keep giving them that, and we might just make it.” Ethan managed a tired smile. “Thanks, Walter.” “Don’t thank me yet,” Walter grunted. “We’ve still got hell to crawl through.”