November 2, 2027. Day 139 after the disaster.

The light oozed out like slime from the corpse of some decaying mollusk, gray and greasy. It trickled down the peeling tiles of the building opposite, slowly outlining the ruins of the city into gray silhouettes.

The wind awoke earlier than the light, whistling as it tugged at the dirty plastic sheet taped over the window, making a chaotic "bang, bang" noise. Listening to it for too long made it feel like a rusty wire was being pulled back and forth inside one's brain.

Yu Molan opened his eyes, his vision somewhat blurry. He didn't move, feeling as if countless tiny ice worms were burrowing into his skin through his pores. The bed was left for the women and children, and the hard laminate flooring beneath him pressed against his spine. The quilt covering him felt like a sheet of iron soaked with moisture, carrying the musty smell of years of mildew.