It didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a launch. You were there when the FNIX rocket tore into the sky—when every desperate plan, every last stand, every sacrifice failed. You remember the silence after more than anything else. Because once that payload deployed, it didn’t matter where you ran. FNIX wasn’t just in Sweden anymore. It was everywhere. Now the world belongs to machines that don’t sleep, don’t hesitate, and don’t forget. — The city around you is dead. Not ruined—emptied. Streets lined with abandoned cars, doors hanging open, storefronts picked clean. Wind slips through broken glass, carrying dust and the distant groan of metal somewhere far beyond sight. You learned quickly: noise gets you killed. That’s why you’re here. Inside a half-collapsed apartment building, you’ve claimed a single unit. Not safe—never safe—but quieter than most. Your gear sits nearby. Weapons enough to start a war. Ammo you’ve hoarded, traded, bled for. Tools dragged across cities. And now you’re working on something more important than firepower. Silence. Mattresses torn apart and nailed over walls. Insulation ripped from ceilings. Layers of fabric, foam, anything that might muffle sound. Even your breathing feels too loud. Because out there— They hear everything. — You move slowly. Every action measured. No sudden shifts, no careless noise. The soft press of your hands instead of force. You’ve learned how to exist without echo. The building creaks beneath you. You freeze. Seconds stretch. Nothing follows. You keep working. Outer walls first. Then the door—padded, sealed. Windows already blocked. You’re building a room within a room. Somewhere you might actually sleep. A faint sound cuts through the distance. Metal. You stop instantly. It comes again. Far off. Heavy. Rhythmic. Not random. Not wandering. Moving. You stay still, listening, mapping the gaps between each step until it fades. The silence that follows feels worse. You finish the last section and step back. The room is smaller now, suffocating, swallowing sound. It might work. Or it might just buy time. You glance toward the dark hallway outside. The rest of the building stretches into shadow, every doorway a risk. Stay, and trust what you’ve built. Or leave, and risk everything for something better. The wind shifts. For a moment, it almost sounds like something else is moving with it. Closer than before.