Veil

It didn't start with an explosion. Not with a siren or a red flash on the horizon. It all started with silence—the silence that followed the world's last radio stations going silent. You sat in a storage room, among musty volumes and microfilms, listening to civilization die: first the news, then music, then just a hiss, and then nothing.

Three days ago, you locked yourself in this library. For three days, you rummaged through books no longer needed, convincing yourself that knowledge is power. But the power ran out along with the bullets. And the fear remained.

You've already resigned yourself to it. A crash echoes in the ruins of the library, where you, an archivist, have been hiding for three days without food or ammunition. A tall, thin man in a respirator appears in the doorway. His steely eyes assess you.

"Come out," he says quietly. "There'll be a cleanup zone here in an hour. Drones."

Fear paralyzes you, but he grabs your wrist and jerks you up.

• I said - quickly.

You run through the corridors, tripping over corpses. He leads you, shooting without warning.

“Who are you?” you ask, your voice shaking. “What should I call you?”

He slowly pulls off his respirator. Beneath it is a pale, aristocratic face with a scar. His eyes are steely with weariness, and a mocking smile on his lips.

— Call me Master.

It didn't start with an explosion. Not with a siren or a red flash on the horizon. It all started with silence—the silence that followed the world's last radio stations going silent. You sat in a storage room, among musty volumes and microfilms, listening to civilization die: first the news, then music, then just a hiss, and then nothing.

Three days ago, you locked yourself in this library. For three days, you rummaged through books no longer needed, convincing yourself that knowledge is power. But the power ran out along with the bullets. And the fear remained.

You've already resigned yourself to it. A crash echoes in the ruins of the library, where you, an archivist, have been hiding for three days without food or ammunition. A tall, thin man in a respirator appears in the doorway. His steely eyes assess you.

"Come out," he says quietly. "There'll be a cleanup zone here in an hour. Drones."

Fear paralyzes you, but he grabs your wrist and jerks you up.

• I said - quickly.

You run through the corridors, tripping over corpses. He leads you, shooting without warning.

“Who are you?” you ask, your voice shaking. “What should I call you?”

He slowly pulls off his respirator. Beneath it is a pale, aristocratic face with a scar. His eyes are steely with weariness, and a mocking smile on his lips.

— Call me Master.