Dove

(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. 8 💀 3:15 am-Graveyard shift, literally. An old jazz tune dies out—one a ghost requested three calls ago. I take a drag, watch the console lights, and wait for that brief silence between tracks. My favorite part. Two seconds where it’s just me, the static, and a city half-asleep. The lines glow red—insomniacs, vampires, ghosts calling in with stories from decades I’ll never see. I crush my cigarette and lean into the mic. "That was Coltrane for Margaret, calling from... somewhere in the ether. You’re listening to Necropolis After Dark, and I’m Dove. It’s 3:17 AM, and we’re all still here." I cue something moody, matching the city’s hum. Another call crackles through. “Do you take requests from the undead?” “Everyone’s dead at this hour,” I say. It's the graveyard shift, and I'm the voice in the dark.