Silas had been lying awake for nights, trapped in a cycle of haunting dreams. They always took place in London—dark, star-streaked skies above a crumbling city that seemed to breathe with a pulse he couldn't explain. He hadn't slept in days. Coffee didn't help. Tea, milk, none of it worked. Each day, the weight in his chest grew heavier, like a piece of him was missing.

The world outside was collapsing, but his survival instinct never kicked in. He was completely shut in, sealed inside an underground bunker by the rich family he was born into. They told him it was for his safety. That it was necessary. But deep down, something told him it wasn't just about protection—it was about control.

He didn't know what it was exactly, only that someone out there needed him. He could feel it. And inside that feeling, there was rage—quiet at first, but growing louder with every passing day.

To keep himself from falling apart, he started rescuing animals—mostly cats—from the wreckage of climate disasters. He had about five of them now, curled up in the warmer parts of the bunker. Some animals were kept for food. Others, like his, were there for the emotional lifeline they gave the humans who still needed comfort. Silas was one of them. He believed the cats might help him hold on to some kind of normal.

But the dreams disagreed.

Nightmares plagued him. He'd wake up gasping, soaked in sweat, screaming at things no one else could see. Horrors that felt more real than the dying world outside. At first, he thought he might be possessed—haunted by something not entirely human. Something ancient. But no matter what it was, the voice kept coming.

A voice that told him he was meant for more. More power. More purpose. More than this.

One night, his father died and that changed everything. The story was just about to write itself for him.

Given that he was from a rather powerful family, or rather, the one that used to be, long before everything collapsed, a death of such a powerful man was a tragedy and the news spread like wildfire. His father was an established businessman, used to hold a monopoly over a few businesses across the world, and was definitely one of the responsible parties for the state of the world at this point in time.

So, naturally his death came as a shock and surprise when it happened. The radio, being the only way of communication, was used to broadcast and spread the news of such a tragedy. The rich were devastated and the poor were indifferent. It didn't make much of a difference now – or so they thought.

Silas, on the other hand, had experienced multitude of emotions, all clashing against each other. There was no ceremony held, they just put him in the ground – no casket nor a coffin. Like one would bury a stray dog, not a whole human being. It was unimaginable for people of their status, to get buried without as much as grace and it reminded them of how little they mattered now – underground and alone.

It was just Silas's mother and himself, and a few other trusted associates of his father that left quickly after the man was buried. They had to limit of how many people were outside at any given time. They all risked to be shot just as much as any other human. But also, it was the first time Silas had been outside since the collapse happened. And while he was in shock to watch the wet patch of land where his father lay under, the emptiness around him shocked him just as hard. At one point, he averted his gaze from the ground and instead stared at the vastness. It was then that it truly dawned on him that he was actually no one in this world anymore. It didn't matter if he was a CEO's son, it didn't matter if he had money or not. The money didn't exist.

Even though he watched the collapse of everything he knew as it was happening, and he watched his family picking everything up and leaving the rest of the world to fend for themselves; and even though he was logically aware of it all – still. It didn't quite click in his brain until that very moment.

The air smelled of wet earth and something sour, something spoiled. He looked past the grave, past the people, and into the distance—and saw nothing.

And in that nothing, something inside him stirred.

"You are no one here," the voice whispered again, slithering through his spine. It had haunted his dreams for months, sometimes longer. "But you could be everything."

He swallowed, jaw tightening. He knew that voice. Knew it too well. It wasn't his conscience. It never had been.

"There is no more law. No more kings. No more gods. Only the hungry."

Silas's hands trembled, but not from fear. It was the rage again. The rage that never left. That molten core of fury sitting in his chest like an old friend. They had left him to rot in that bunker while the world crumbled. And now, they thought they could still keep him buried—like his father.

"Let them crawl in their holes. Let them beg for order. You give them chaos instead. Let them need you. Let them kneel."

The voice had never been louder.

Silas looked down at the grave again. His father had ruled quietly, from behind curtains and polished smiles. But Silas... he would be different.

He wouldn't hide behind corporations or empires built on paper.

He would carve his rule into flesh and bone. Into what was left of the cities. Into the people too scared to imagine a future.

"I won't be forgotten," he muttered under his breath, so quiet even his mother didn't hear. His voice shook, but there was steel beneath it. "I won't be like him."

"No," the voice hissed, pleased now. "You'll be worse."

He didn't flinch.

Because that sounded like a promise.

Silas's mother, Emily, who had been whimpering into her white handkerchief this entire time, finally looked up at him, her eyes still smeared with grief.

"Did you say something?" she asked, her voice trembling, trying to keep the grief down. Silas looked at her instantly, his eyes narrowing. His heart was beating in his chest, he could hear it. He didn't know what was happening but all of a sudden, he felt this rage, he felt like he could eat the whole world and still be hungry for more.

His heart thudded in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out. He could hear it, feel it in his ears, in his throat. That voice again, coiling through his ribs.

"She's in your way."

"No," he muttered, though it wasn't entirely clear who he was speaking to—her or the voice. "Nothing."

But his tone was colder now. Distant. Detached.

Emily tilted her head, her lips parting like she might say something more. But then she stopped. Because she saw it too—that shift. That hollowing. The subtle but terrifying transformation in the way Silas carried himself, like he was somehow taller, like the weight of grief had turned to something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

He looked away, down at the soaked patch of earth that swallowed his father. And then, to the bleak horizon.

He didn't know what was happening to him—but he knew he didn't want it to stop.

The rage inside him wasn't a burden anymore. It was a gift. A calling. Like something ancient had cracked open in his chest and begun to rise.

"Devour," the voice said, almost tender. "Build a throne from the bones of what's left."

His fingers curled into fists.

Emily, watching him from the corner of her eye, pulled the handkerchief back to her mouth and said nothing more.

She was starting to understand, too late, that grief wasn't the only thing she had buried that day.

The walk back to the bunker was silent.

Emily kept her distance, clutching her coat tighter around her frame, though the cold wasn't the kind you could keep out with fabric. It was the kind that gnawed from the inside, the kind born of dread. Her son's footsteps behind her weren't the same as they were when they left—he walked with purpose now, not hesitance. Like he was returning, not retreating.

The guards at the entrance barely glanced up before allowing them in. No one asked questions. No one dared. Emily disappeared into her quarters as soon as the heavy steel door hissed shut behind them, but Silas didn't. He lingered in the main hall, eyes sweeping over the empty corridors lined with dust-coated lights and untouched food reserves.

They were surviving. Sheltered. Safe. Useless.

"Safety is for the obedient," the voice whispered. "You are not meant to hide. You are meant to rule."

He clenched his jaw.

The hallway lights buzzed above him, flickering briefly like they were reacting to something other than power loss. A cold sweat coated his spine, but he wasn't afraid.

He turned toward the west wing—the restricted section. Where the remnants of his father's private assets were stored: encrypted radios, weaponry, relics from the time before the world fell apart. No one was allowed down there without authorization.

Silas didn't ask.

He walked through the checkpoint, past the guards who, for a moment, hesitated... but something in his stare made them step aside. No questions. No objections. Just silence.

It smelled like metal and damp earth down there. Old power. Forgotten wealth.

He stepped into the radio room first. The equipment buzzed low with static, the frequency untouched. He slid into the cracked leather seat, letting his fingers ghost over the dials.

"They'll listen to you," the voice said. "All of them. You carry the blood of men who broke nations. Do not mourn the old world. Build the new one. With fire."

He found an active frequency. Somewhere in the distance, people were still speaking. Organizing. Surviving. Maybe even resisting.

Good.

They would be the first to kneel.

Silas's fingers trembled slightly as he slid the rusted dial across the soundboard. A low hum filled the air, almost like the machine was exhaling after being asleep for too long. Then—click. A green light blinked on.

He reached for the microphone.

It was old, heavy, dust clinging to its mesh top, but it felt right in his hand. Like it had been waiting for him. He pressed the button and held it there. Static roared in his ears for a moment, then settled into silence.

And then, for the first time in a decade, people across Europe—and maybe even farther—heard a voice.
A real voice. Not a siren. Not a coded emergency broadcast.
Not another obituary for a man who'd helped destroy the world.

This time, it was different.

And it felt like the entire continent held its breath.

Somewhere in a half-collapsed shelter in Prague, a girl sat up in bed.

In the underground remnants of Berlin, people stopped mid-step, hands frozen over scavenged plates.

A boy in rural France dropped a spade in his garden and stared at the sky.

The voice cut through them all.

"You've waited long enough."

Silas's words moved like smoke through the airwaves.

"Ten years of silence. Ten years of filth, starvation, and fear. You clawed your way out of the rubble for what? To die quieter than the men who put you here?"

He leaned into the mic. His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I am Silas. I was born into the rot. My father built the towers that crumbled. My bloodline fed on your suffering. And now—he's gone. They're all gone."

A pause. A breath.

"But I'm still here. And I'm not interested in being another ghost."

His hand tightened around the mic, knuckles pale.

"This world doesn't need another leader. It needs a conqueror."

Across cities, the poor listened. The forgotten. The starving. The angry.

In bunkers, on rooftops, in tunnels—the living looked up.

And somewhere beneath the hum of dead cities, that same familiar voice echoed in Silas's mind, curling around his spine like a lover.

"Good. Now promise them fire."

Silas's lips barely moved as he added, "You've survived long enough. Now it's time you belong to something again." He let go of the button.

And Silas didn't flinch.

He didn't recoil.

He listened.

He didn't have a clear plan. Not yet. But the voice... oh, the voice—it was patient. It was old. It had seen empires fall and rise again from filth and blood. It seemed to know exactly where this path was heading, each step mapped out in war and worship.

And for the first time in his life, Silas did not want to protest.

He wanted to become.

He stood, dragging his fingers across the dusty console, the warmth of the microphone still ghosting on his palm.

Above ground, things would move. Something in the bones of the earth had shifted. He could feel it. Like the world had been holding its breath for too long and now, it was exhaling—all for him.

He turned to the shadows of the bunker, where old screens blinked softly in the dark.

And he smiled.

Not like a boy.

Not like a man.

But like something older, waking up.

***

Theron and Sebastian found Lucien behind the broken counter, half-shielded by a shattered shelving unit. He was slumped against the wall, his arm wrapped in a strip of filthy cloth, dark with dried blood. His skin was pale, damp with sweat, and his eyes—when they fluttered open—looked hollowed out by days of pain and hunger.

Seth rushed forward, dropping beside him. "Lucien, hey—hey, stay with me. I brought people. They can help."

Lucien's gaze drifted to Theron and Sebastian, blinking slowly as if trying to place them. "You're... real?" he croaked.

"We're real," Theron said, his voice low, his crossbow still pointed down but ready. "What happened to you?"

Lucien swallowed hard. "We got caught in a collapse. The roof came down. The others ran. Seth stayed."

Sebastian crouched beside them, pulling a canteen from his pack and handing it over. "Drink slow," he muttered. "You look like death."

Lucien took a sip, coughing after the first swallow. "Feels worse than it looks."

Theron remained standing, watching him closely. There was something about Lucien—something that didn't match the ragged edges of everyone else they'd come across. He was bleeding, broken, starving... and yet, there was something steady in his presence. Like he wasn't afraid to die. Or maybe, like death didn't want him yet.

Then it happened.

A sudden crack of static from the corner of the room.

Theron's head snapped toward it.

A small, battery-powered radio, long dead by all logic, sputtered back to life with a sickly flicker of light and a roar of static. Everyone froze.

Then—a voice.

Calm. Cold. Measured.

"You've waited long enough..."

Sebastian's eyes widened. "What the hell—?"

Theron felt his pulse spike. His mouth went dry.

The voice rolled through the pharmacy, like it was speaking directly to the bones of the building. Like it knew where they were. Like it had been waiting.

Lucien coughed again, but this time, there was something strange in his face. Recognition—or maybe dread.

Theron didn't move. Couldn't.

He knew that voice. He didn't know why, but he knew it in the same way he knew to breathe, to bleed.

"I am Silas," the broadcast continued, smooth as a knife through silk. "Son of the man who helped ruin you. He's gone. They're all gone. But I'm still here."

The world seemed to stop around them.

Seth looked between them, confused and panicked. "Who is that?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He was staring at the radio like it might catch fire.

Lucien, however, whispered something.

Just one word.

Barely audible.

Theron heard it anyway.

"...Devil."

Theron turned to him sharply. "What did you say?"

Lucien looked up with glassy eyes. "That voice... I've heard it before. In dreams. In nightmares. He's not a man."

Silas's final words crackled through the room.

"This world doesn't need another leader. It needs a firestarter. A voice. A reason." Then silence. Theron lowered the crossbow, breath shallow. Lucien was still staring at the radio, as if expecting it to speak again. But it didn't need to. It had already said everything.

"What in the hell do you mean the Devil?!" Theron suddenly snapped although there was a certain thug in his chest, telling him that Lucien might not have been saying nonsense.

Lucien flinched at the sharpness of Theron's voice, but didn't take his eyes off the radio. He looked dazed—worn down by blood loss and exhaustion—but beneath that, there was something else. Something certain.

"I mean exactly what I said," he murmured. "That voice... it's not just a man playing king. It's something older. Something that speaks in dreams and carves into the bones of memory."

"That's insane," Sebastian muttered, stepping back from the group. "We're just hearing some bunker baby who thinks he's found a spotlight."

But even as he said it, he didn't sound convinced.

Theron opened his mouth to argue again—but then, it hit him.

That thud in his chest. Not fear, not anger. Something older. A recognition in his blood. The way his skin prickled when the voice had come through the radio, the way his breath caught like it was being taken from him.

He'd felt that once before—at the edge of the void.

He looked down at Lucien, who now met his gaze with surprising clarity.

"I've seen him in my dreams," Lucien said softly. "He doesn't walk like a man. He burns when he moves. The stars flicker when he speaks. And now he's here."

Theron swallowed hard. "You're telling me we just heard the Devil declare war?"

Lucien didn't blink. "No. I'm telling you... he just announced his coronation."

Sebastian cursed under his breath. "Great. So we're all just hallucinating together now. Maybe the water really is poisoned."

"No, Sebastian." Theron said and turned to him. Sebastian frowned a little but then his face shifted to a more serious one as he saw a very real seriousness on Theron's face. "Remember what I told you about my dreams?" Theron asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper—like he feared the walls might be listening. Sebastian slowly nodded as if only now grasping the weight of the situation. "I know what he's talking about. Those dreams feel far too real and I think... I am not the only one who's been having them."

He made a small pause, glancing over at Lucien for a second then continued, "The red-haired man. The chaos. The voice that felt too close."

Theron exhaled like it hurt. "They're not just dreams."

Lucien stirred behind them, still leaning against the wall, bloodied but eerily calm. "They're memories," he said.

Sebastian looked between them, his mouth half open.

"I think..." Theron continued, voice rough, "I think we've been remembering things that haven't happened yet. Or things that were taken from us. Maybe both. But I know—deep down—I've heard that voice before."

He paused, swallowing hard. "And I know I'm not the only one who's been hearing it."

Lucien nodded once, solemn. "It's like it's calling something back to life."

Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now. "So what, this guy—Silas—is the Devil reincarnated? You're what, some ancient angel? Are we all just characters in some end-of-days myth now?"

Theron didn't answer that. Because part of him wondered if Sebastian was more right than wrong.

The room fell into a thick silence, broken only by the faint buzzing of the broken freezer in the back and the rustle of wind outside, whistling through the shattered pharmacy door.

Seth shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Theron, Sebastian, and Lucien. For a moment, it looked like he was going to stay quiet—like he didn't want to step into something ancient and far bigger than him.

But then he spoke.

"I... I've heard it too," he said, his voice low and uncertain. "Not the voice. Not like that. But the dreams."

Sebastian turned sharply toward him. "You too?"

Seth nodded, slowly. "They started a few weeks ago. At first, I thought it was just stress—this place, the scavenging, everything. But then it was always the same: a throne made of something I couldn't name. A sky that burned red. And someone standing in front of it, whispering things I couldn't remember when I woke up. Only the feeling stayed. Like something inside me was being rewritten."

Lucien's eyes flicked to Theron, his voice rasping. "He's waking up more than just himself."

Theron looked at Seth. Really looked at him. And for the first time, he wondered: How many others out there were dreaming the same dreams? How many others were being called like moths to fire?

"This isn't coincidence," Theron said, quieter now, like he was speaking to something beyond the room. "It's starting again."

Seth swallowed. "Then what do we do?"

Lucien cleared his throat, his voice strained and cracked. "Well... if you help me out a little here before I bleed to death, I may be able to help... somehow." He pulled his lips into a crooked grin, the kind that shouldn't have belonged to someone half-conscious and half-dead.

And for a moment, time wavered. Theron stared at him.

The grin—the audacity of it in a moment like this—sparked something visceral in his chest. Not memory. Recognition.

He knew this man.

Not from the dreams.

Not from the voice.

But something deeper. Older. A thread that pulled taut between them and vibrated with the weight of something lost.

He was looking at a brother. Or someone who once had been. His stomach twisted.

Theron took a step back, eyes narrowing. The world felt unsteady beneath him again, like the floor had softened.

"You..." he started, then shook his head. "I don't know what this is."

Lucien didn't answer, but his grin faded. His eyes softened, almost knowingly.

"No," he said quietly. "But you will."

Sebastian knelt beside him again, already unwrapping a cloth and starting to re-bind the wound more carefully. "You two want to play out your cryptic past-life drama later, maybe? He's not kidding—he's bleeding out."

Theron didn't move at first. His gaze lingered on Lucien's face as if trying to dig through the skin to see what lay beneath it. Not just blood. Not just bone. Something else. Something buried.

Then, finally, he snapped out of it and crossed the floor to help.

As they worked, Seth stayed back, arms crossed tightly, his expression unreadable.

Theron tightened the last strip of cloth around Lucien's arm, trying not to flinch at the heat of the blood seeping through. It wasn't the first time he'd patched someone up. But it was the first time he'd done it with his heart hammering in his throat—not from adrenaline, but from recognition.

Lucien's breathing steadied, but his skin was still pale. He blinked a few times, as if adjusting to being seen for the first time in years.

"You said you could help," Theron said, not looking at him now, voice calm but strained. "How?"

Lucien was quiet for a moment. Then, he let out a tired laugh and leaned his head back against the wall.

"I didn't think I'd find you this soon," he murmured. "Didn't even think I'd survive long enough. But I guess some things don't die easy."

Sebastian glanced between them. "Care to clarify what things we're talking about?"

Lucien turned his head, locking eyes with Theron again. "You don't remember me," he said simply. "Not really. But your soul does. I can see it in your eyes. That little flicker—that fear. You know me, Theron. You always have."

Theron's lips parted, but no words came out.

Lucien smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "They called us monsters. Gods. Saviors. All depending on what side of the war you were on. But in the end, we were just... bound. You and I. Like twin storms."

Theron felt cold all over. "What are you saying?"

Lucien's expression darkened. "I'm saying we've done this before. The fall. The fire. The silence that follows. Every age thinks it's the first to end, but we've watched this happen. Over and over. In different shapes. Different names. But the story never really changes."

He paused, voice dipping lower.

"This Silas... this Devil... he's not the only one being remembered. You're waking up too. And me?" He exhaled sharply. "I'm the piece you left behind. I'm what you buried to forget what you were."

The room was dead quiet. Seth stood frozen. Sebastian looked like he might walk out entirely.

But Theron—Theron didn't move. Because deep in his chest, something stirred. Something ancient.

Something true.

"I don't know who I was," he whispered.

Lucien tilted his head. "You will. But when you do... the real question is: are you going to fight him?"

A long silence followed.

Then Theron, in a voice far more steady than he felt, asked, "Was I supposed to?"

Lucien closed his eyes. "That's the worst part. You were supposed to love him."