The city ends like a half-finished thought.

  One moment it's cracked asphalt and graffiti, the next it’s overgrowth, wild grass splitting pavement like nature's pushing back.

  It's not peaceful. Not exactly.

  Too quiet. Too green.

  Like someone hit a hard reset out here and forgot to tell the apocalypse.

  Sylas grips the cart tighter, listening for footsteps, for corruption, for anything that breathes wrong.

  But all he hears is wind. Leaves. Birds, maybe.

  …Birds?

  “Huh,” he mutters. “Still got birds.”

  He stops, and for a second just breathes.

  The stench of rot and decay he’s only just realized was there?

  Gone.

  It smells like being deep in a forest on a spring afternoon, like pollen and dirt and flowers and- it just smells right.

  Like he’s meant to be here.

  The issue is that he hasn't felt like this about a forest before.

  He hopes it’s because of his revelation right before the end of the world, and not because the system is changing his mentality to better match his class.

  Fingers crossed.

  As he steps across into the more nature-y area, his phone buzzes.

  He pulls it out.

  +10 CLASS XP

  13/100

  That’s convenient.

  It's like one of those step counting apps. is that what foreshadowing is?

  Eh. oh well.

  Sylas shoves the phone back in his pocket and keeps walking, cart wheels thumping over chunks of broken sidewalk now tangled in moss. A squirrel darts out of a crumpled mailbox, stares at him like he’s the problem, and bolts up a tree.

  He narrows his eyes at it.

  “Yeah, okay. Sure. Go ahead. You win the apocalypse.”

  The squirrel doesn’t respond. Typical.

  The further he goes, the more the city disappears behind him—not just in distance, but in feel. Like it’s being erased. Like he’s walking into a painting no one finished because they died halfway through the first brushstroke.

  It’s nice.

  He stops at a little bus stop as the sky starts darkening.

  Its nothing but overgrown road and woods both ways, the bus stop is one of those that the city just puts in randomly. He assumes.

  Anyways, some finagling with the tarp and the rope covers the front of the bus stop, making a curtain like thing where its just too short to reach the ground.

  Good enough.

  Setting his sleeping bag on the bench, he pulls out a can of chef boyardee ravioli.

  Mmmm, the good stuff.

  He stabs it open with the knife—cleaned, but still vaguely pink around the handle—and eats straight from the can. Cold. Metallic. Perfect.

  He’s had worse meals. He's made worse meals. This one even has sauce.

  The sound of the forest is actually calming- he thought he’d be the type to need a fan to sleep, due to being in a city his entire life, but this is actually incredibly soothing.

  The sound of the birds, the crickets, the wind rustling through the trees, all so calming.

  Who knew he wouldn't miss the constant sound of traffic?

  His phone buzzes, and he glances at it.

  PASSIVE UNLOCKED: NOMADIC SHELTER

  Almost anywhere you are, you’ll find a way to find a spot to sleep.

  15% less likely for a crafted shelter to fall apart

  He snorts.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Well, that's useful.

  Morning comes slowly, but it’s a comfortable slow, one of those times where you just lay in bed after waking up, not ging back to sleep but just enjoying being in bed still.

  Just… existing. Wrapped in a sleeping bag on a half-rusted bench, listening to birds instead of sirens.

  The tarp curtain flutters gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across his legs. He stretches, bones popping in protest, and rubs a hand over his face. No blood. That’s a win.

  He sits up, blinking against the early light filtering through the trees. Still alive. Still... not hunted.

  The forest smells the same as it did last night—clean, earthy, a little damp.

  He could get used to this.

  He won’t. But he could.

  He steps out of the tent, breathes in more of that fresh and dewy forest air, and-

  He freezes.

  Across the road, half-shrouded in mist and the soft green shadow of overgrowth, stands the Observer.

  Just... standing there.

  Watching.

  Staring.

  No movement. No sound. Just that single, massive eye fixed on him like it’s reading through every layer of who he is.

  He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.

  For a second, he wonders if this is some new morning ritual.

  Coffee. Stretch. Stare down the unknowable abomination that’s maybe tracking your soul.

  “Cool,” he mutters. Voice dry.

  “Guess we’re doing this.”

  Fuck this.

  “Hey!” he shouts, “Hungry?”

  The observer stares.

  “Well don’t just stand there! That's weird!”The Observer’s head tilts. Not just a little. It tilts like it’s made of rubber, like it’s stretching too far, and something deep inside Sylas’s chest tightens.

  Then it takes a step forward.

  And another.

  God, this was a terrible idea.

  He sits and watches as it gets closer and closer, before stopping in front of him, staring.

  He waves behind him, “want to take a seat?”

  It stares.

  He blinks.

  It doesn’t.

  Guess that answers that question.

  “Freaky,” he murmurs.

  “Anyways,” he says a bit louder, trying to shake the tension, “I’m going back in, and you can come in with me if you want.”

  The Observer doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything. It just... steps in with him.

  Sylas can’t help but feel a strange sense of resignation. Maybe this is just the new normal. Maybe, at this point, he's not even surprised.

  “Well, go ahead and make yourself at home,” he says as he waves at the negligible space inside the bus stop.

  The Observer stares.

  “Why am I not surprised?” he mutters.

  So much for a peaceful morning.

  “And then he goes “that’s not my wife! This is my wife!”, Sylas bursts out laughing.

  The Observer stares.

  Sylas’ laugh slowly peters out, before there’s only the sound of birds and awkwardness.

  For a moment, it's like the air itself is holding its breath. He shifts, uncomfortable under the intensity of that single, unblinking eye.

  “Right,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess humor doesn’t translate well.”

  The Observer doesn’t respond.

  Sylas stares at the creature for a beat, then sighs. “Okay, well, that was… that was weird. But whatever. I guess we’re both weird now.”

  He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one. The Observer just keeps walking beside him, still staring, unblinking.

  Great, he thinks. This is what his life has become.

  His phone buzzes.

  “One sec, gotta take this” he murmurs to himself, giggling softly, before he checks his screen.

  PASSIVE UNLOCKED: FRIENDS WITH ANYONE

  No matter who- or what- it is, they feel a kindred bond with you.

  People seem to trust you more when they first meet you.

  He glances at the Observer, who is still staring at him, and then back down at his phone.

  Yeah, that tracks.

  After about an hour of playing eye spy - which he is winning by the way- they come across a washed-out bridge over a river.

  The bridge, once sturdy, is now more like a skeleton—splintered wood and rusted metal barely holding together. It seems like something that should have been abandoned long ago, but here it is, waiting for someone—anyone—to try crossing it.

  Sylas stops a few paces away, eyeing the structure with suspicion.

  “Yeah, not gonna be my death today,” he mutters, tapping his phone again to check his surroundings, just in case. The Observer is still following him silently, its unsettling gaze never straying from Sylas for long.

  “Alright, let’s see…” he crouches down, scanning the broken bridge. The river beneath is swift, a little too swift for comfort. Even if the bridge weren’t falling apart, the current would make it risky. He frowns and looks around.

  Wait, why is there a river here?

  He stops to think for a moment.

  He left somerset going out of the southern end, following the road down south-east, which should have taken him into Beaver Creek wilderness.

  After passing over the Cumberland, which he did before he even got to the bus stop, there shouldn't be a single bridge over anything more than a creek or drainpipe.

  But this is a river.

  Where a river wasn’t before.

  You know what? This is nowhere near the weirdest thing i’ve seen so far.

  He glances at the Observer, (which is still staring, if you wanted to know), and back to the river.

  “Cool.” he murmurs. “Cool cool cool.”

  He sighs, and straightens up.

  “Right!” he exclaims with an air of finality, “if your gunna keep followin’ me, imma call you Bill. No, Bob. you're more of a Bob.”

  Bob stares.

  “Right… Anyways, bob, what we're gunna do is follow this river down over to the right and hope we find somewhere to cross. If we don’t, that's fine, I don’t have a destination anyways. Complaints?”

  Bob does not complain. He just stares.

  “Bob, I’m liking you already,”.