Zak
Night settled in slowly, as if the world hesitated to welcome it.
It didn't fall all at once. It crept in layers. The last traces of orange faded from the clouds, replaced by dull gray, then darker shades that blended into one another until the sky became heavy and indistinct. Outside the balcony doors, the city blurred. Buildings turned into silhouettes. Streets vanished into shadow.
The web remained.
It cut across the darkness like thick scars, strands barely visible unless Zak focused on them. He tried not to. Every time his eyes lingered, his chest tightened, breath catching for reasons he didn't want to name.
Inside the apartment, the air felt different.
Food.
The smell filled the space—warm rice, canned vegetables, oil heated just enough to carry scent. It felt out of place, like laughter at a funeral.
Craig stood by the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring a battered pot they'd taken from a neighboring unit. The metal scraped softly each time the spoon met the bottom. The sound was steady, intentional.
Normal.
Zak sat on the floor near the wall, knees drawn to his chest, watching steam curl upward. It briefly fogged the light, then disappeared.
No one talked much anymore.
Hassan lay on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, lips moving silently. His hands were tightly folded over his stomach, fingers pressing into fabric like he needed to hold himself together. Chris sat at the table, cleaning a knife with a torn piece of cloth, movements slow and careful. Selma leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at an empty spot on the wall.
Abdi stood near the balcony doors.
Zak noticed it without knowing why.
He wasn't leaning against the frame. He didn't brace himself like the others whenever the building made a sound. His posture was loose, casual in a way that didn't match the situation. His feet were planted lightly, evenly spaced, like balance wasn't something he needed to negotiate.
The building groaned.
It wasn't loud. It was the deep sound of something under stress, a long complaint that traveled through the floor and up Zak's spine.
Selma stiffened. Hassan's eyes snapped open. Chris paused mid-motion, fingers tightening around the blade.
Abdi didn't move.
Zak frowned.
The tremor passed. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, catching the dim kitchen light like falling ash. Craig didn't turn from the stove.
"Eat when it's ready," he said. "We don't know how long the power will last."
Zak shifted his leg without thinking.
He froze.
The movement felt wrong.
Not painful. Just unfamiliar. Like stepping onto a stair that wasn't where you expected it to be. His breath caught before he could stop it.
He glanced down, tugged the hem of his shorts up slightly—and stopped himself.
Don't.
He let the fabric fall and pressed his heel flat against the cool tile instead. The floor felt solid, real. Cold enough to ground him.
Still, his heart raced faster than it should have.
Craig scooped food into mismatched bowls and lined them along the counter. "Careful," he said. "It's hot."
They gathered slowly, sitting wherever there was space. No one rushed. No one joked. Zak took a bowl and ate mechanically, barely tasting it. His eyes kept drifting—back to Abdi.
Abdi was still standing.
Not eating. Not swaying. Just watching the dark outside like he expected it to blink first.
Minutes passed.
The only sounds were chewing, the hum of electricity, and the distant groan of the city under strain.
Then the building creaked again.
Sharper this time.
The apartment tilted—just slightly. Enough to make Zak's stomach drop. Selma grabbed the counter with both hands. Hassan cursed under his breath and rolled onto his side. Chris widened his stance instinctively.
Abdi stepped forward.
One step.
The tilt stopped.
Zak blinked.
The timing was too precise to ignore, but the movement was so small he almost convinced himself he imagined it. Almost.
Abdi exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding his breath without realizing it. His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"You good?" Craig asked, still facing the stove.
"Yeah," Abdi said too quickly. "Just… checking something."
"Checking what?" Hassan asked.
Abdi shrugged. "Balance."
No one pressed him.
The building settled again, unhappy but intact.
They ate in silence. Outside, the web creaked faintly, a sound like stretched cables in the wind. Somewhere far away, metal screamed—another building shifting, adding another strain to the city's invisible limits.
Zak finished his bowl without noticing when the last bite disappeared.
Craig rinsed the pot with bottled water, movements efficient. When he finished, he leaned against the counter and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
"We sleep in shifts," he said. "Two hours each."
No one argued.
Chris volunteered first. Selma stayed awake with him, sitting near the kitchen. Hassan lay back down, exhaustion dragging him under faster than prayer ever could.
Zak remained where he was, back against the wall.
The light dimmed further as night deepened. Outside, the skyline was barely visible now—just shapes pressed against darker shapes. The web remained, faint but undeniable.
Zak closed his eyes.
At first, there was nothing. Just darkness and the hum of electricity. Then came the feeling.
Not pain.
Absence.
Like a bruise that should have throbbed and didn't. Like a memory missing a middle.
He pressed his fingers lightly above his knee.
Nothing hurt.
His pulse spiked.
He pulled his hand away immediately and folded both hands tightly in his lap, afraid of what he might notice if he touched himself again.
Across the room, Abdi had returned to the balcony doors. Zak watched him without meaning to, noticed how the floor seemed steady beneath his feet even as the building released another tired groan.
The lights flickered once.
Then held.
Time stretched.
At some point, Chris and Selma switched places. Selma dozed sitting up, chin resting on her chest. Chris paced quietly near the door. Craig slept sitting against the counter, head tilted back, arms crossed.
Zak didn't sleep.
He listened.
To the building. To the city. To his own breathing.
Outside, the web tightened by small degrees too tiny to see, but not too small to feel.
And somewhere deep inside, something that should have hurt remained silent.
Zak wondered which would give first—the building, the city, or the parts of himself that no longer behaved the way they should.