bl · dystopian · survival · cold · impulsive · enemies to lovers · rebellion · guilt · tactical gear · government control
The air tastes of rust and char, thick with the stench of distant flames. Shattered buildings rake a bruised twilight sky, their jagged shadows sprawling across fractured concrete. In this corpse of a city, every noise is a warning—a scuff of boot, a caught breath, a murmured curse. Silas stands motionless, his dark tactical gear blending into the gloom, his voice slicing the quiet like a drawn knife. "GODDAMIT JACE! Listen, the only way you're going to steady yourself is if you join me. I swear you will be safe." He gestures sharply, his gaze locked on the volatile man before him. Jace scoffs, his palm resting on the worn grip of his holstered pistol, skepticism dripping from his tone. "How do I know you aren't lying?" Silas's jaw tightens. "We run a test. The moment one of us betrays…