The boy let out a sharp breath, gasping as he quickly sat up on the mattress that he was resting on. He slowly put his hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating rapidly, as if it were to come out of his chest at any given moment. He shook his head, looking to the worn down nightstand next to the mattress. He quickly reached for the jug of water that he carried with him, opening it as he brought it closer to his chest. He felt refreshed before he even put it to his lips, taking a couple gulps of the room temperature water before capping it and placing it back on the nightstand. He twisted himself in his seat, his legs dangling off the mattress as he pushed himself off, standing and gaining his balance as he got up and opened the bedroom door, walking down the corridor before turning and walking into the bathroom. He flicked the light on, in which the lights replied with a flicker before turning on completely. They were bright, but they flickered every now and then. The boy sighed as he placed his hands on the top of the sink, looking down into the drain. He wondered to himself where all of that water went, and if that water ever came back to do its job again, like wet his toothbrush, or wash out his mouth once he was done brushing his teeth.

He shook his head once more, breaking the trance and looking up into the mirror. There, he was greeted by a young, yet pale boy. His hair was unkept at ear length, and it was dyed a dirty green. His face told a story. One eye was normal, as one would expect it to be, yet the other was an anomaly. Instead of his cornea and pupil being the same color of his other eye, they were shrouded by a cloudy whitish-blue. He was blind in that eye, and had always been ever since birth. Then, the boy brought his hand up to his face, his fingertips gently running across the deep gash scar on his cheek, and the scratch marks that never seemed to go away on his other. All this time, as the boy stared at the figure in the mirror, it soon came to his attention that this boy in front of him was himself. He sighed in disappointment, upset that no matter how much he had wished for things to change, he would remain in the same world, alone with nobody to hold onto. The boy brought his hand from his face to the faucet, turning it on and cupping his hand under the falling water, before bringing it back up to his face. He splashed his face a few times before turning the sink off and grabbing the dirty towel aside him, wiping his face off.

He dropped the towel on the tiled floor, which was cracked and full of dust. He turned and left the bathroom, returning to the bedroom that he was in. He went around the room, gathering his resources, such as his jug of water, the MREs that he had stolen, medical supplies such as bandages and hydrogen peroxide, and the PM pistol that he had kept on the nightstand as he slept. He pulled his hoodie up and stuffed the handgun into the holster that was attached to his belt. He then tugged his trousers up and pulled his hoodie down, concealing the firearm rather well. He then took all of his belongings that rested on the mattress and placed them gently into his military-grade rucksack. He picked the bag up and placed his arms in each strap, pulling it into his back and adjusting the straps accordingly. Then, crouched down and reached underneath the bedframe, pulling out a compact MP5K, extending the buttstock of the weapon and picking it up to rest in his arms, hand on the grip of the weapon, the other on the foregrip. He looked around the room, trying not to forget anything that he had brought along with him, before spotting out a surgical mask that he left on the other nightstand. He walked around the bedframe, placing his firearm on the mattress as he picked up the mask, pulling it around his ears and adjusting it to fit over his nose. He nodded to himself, assured that the mask sat nicely on his face before picking the firearm back up and walking back around the bedframe, to the door, exiting the room.

At this moment, he appeared to look more like a grown man. If one were to examine him as he walked about the corridor, they would see that he stood at an average male's height. About five foot eight to be precise. He also walked with confidence, which made sense. The boy had been through a lot, and one would be right to assume if they were able to see his bare body. He was riddled with scars, bullet holes that were mended shut, stab wounds that were amateurly closed with stitches that were eventually pulled out by the boy himself, and his lack of a pinkie finger on his left hand. It was wrapped up with bandages, but that wouldn't stop the blood from staining the bandaging. It had been quite some time since that had happened, as his pinkie finger was nothing lesser of a stump on his hand, but he continued to wear the bandage, refusing to change it, even if it risked causing an infection.

His appearance also made him look much more intimidating, aside from the mask on his face, he donned a black headband that was made from a t-shirt, torn and tied around his head, just underneath his hairline. It would catch the sweat that would normally drop from the top of his head whenever he was under pressure. He wore a black hoodie underneath a green hunting vest that he had looted off of the body of a man that he had to dispose of one day. It wasn't easy coming across clean clothes, his jeans were also stolen off of a corpse. Not like that mattered in this world, if one died, that person was considered lucky. Death was a release from the hell that was this planet, ever since what happened back in the early two thousands, the world was never the same. The boy found himself at the front door of the place that he had taken refuge at, a hand leaving the foregrip of his gun to open the door. He opened it slowly, the other hand positioning the firearm to aim out the door, moving with the door as it opened. The boy had opened the door to what seemed to be a ghost town, the neighboring buildings were quiet, all lights were out and some windows shattered to nothing. He allowed himself to ease up, leaving his guard down as he stepped out of the apartment he had stayed in. He was lucky to have found a building with power and working water, next time he'll remember to mark this building and come back to it whenever he could, it was a good hideout. The city was quiet, the occasional echo of birds chirping in the distance would fill the air, but it was quiet.

Only rarely did anyone have the pleasure of having to listen to somebody scream or cry for mercy. Their pleads would fall on deaf ears, or at least, unethical ones. Nobody wanted to take the risk of dying, religion slowly became a thing of the past, and nobody truly knew what happened when a loved one passed. But at the end of the day, their efforts would amount to nothing, as the weakest links would die off. They were either caught not paying attention, or someone was lucky enough to come across a functioning rifle that fired rounds long range, and were shot from a nearby building. Of course, most shooters were untrained, so the deaths of those being shot were prolonged. The boy reminisced on one time when he was scavenging for supplies when he spotted out a man who seemed to be lurking about, searching for somebody to either mug or kill for their belongings. The boy continued to watch in silence, taking cover behind a run down taxi as the man walked. He walked and walked and walked until a loud crack echoed through the sky. The boy flinched from the sound, but he kept his eyes glued to the man. The man jolted and quickly dropped down to the ground, letting out a shriek of pain as he brought his knee to his chest, hugging it.

"Yoooooou fucking cock sucker! You piece of shit!" The man hollered at the building before him, raising a fist at the building and shaking it angrily. The sniper seemed to take offense, because soon after, another loud crack had echoed through the sky. The boy was able to spot out a muzzle flare from one of the windows, and was assured that the sniper was unable to see him in his line of sight. He continued to watch, the man's fist was now open. He began to scream now, nothing that came from his mouth was coherent. He continued to yell before his voice became nothing more than just a cry.

"Please! I don't want to- I'll give you all of my stuff... please! Don't!" begged the man, who unfortunately was forever bound to the concrete of the street that he used to walk on. The boy seemed to feel pity for the man, but had not dared to approach the situation in fear that he too would join the man in his world of pain. A loud crack echoed once again, and it was unfortunately the last noise that the man on the ground would ever hear. The man fell silent, the screaming had stopped, and all that was heard was the yell of the sniper from the building.

A faint cheer emitted from the same building that the sniper had shot from, a couple heads peeking out to see if the man on the street had finally died. It seemed so, one round was embedded in his kneecap, another had pierced his hand, taking off the tips of the middle and index fingers, and leaving a hole in the palm of his hand. Finally, a bullet was lodged into the man's cranium, blood leaking out everywhere into the cracks of the concrete that he laid on. The boy felt nothing but fear, quickly standing and making a run for it, running in the other direction of where the man was murdered. The boy shook his head, it was nothing more than just a memory, but it was something that was branded into his head. That moment made him realize that no matter what, he will die alone with nobody to hold onto. The world is cold, unforgiving, and ruthless, and it wasn't going to make an exception for a young boy that was caught up in the moment. He sighed, a feeling of anxiety welling up inside of him, but he ignored it.

He stepped down the porch of the building onto the sidewalk, walking down the sidewalk and thinking to himself. If he had found his way to the bar that he was told about on 42nd Street, maybe he would be able to refill supplies and find somebody generous enough to lend something to him. He made that his goal as he continued walking. He looked at the street sign once he had reached an intersection. 40th Street, it read. Only two more blocks to walk, it seemed. He continued walking, looking to his side and watching all of the storefronts, trying his best to be aware of his surroundings. One little mistake and he would find himself in a world of shit. He shook his head at the thought, continuing to watch each storefront as he made his way to the next intersection. 41st Street, the sign read. Finally, just one more block and he'd be home free. At least, for a few hours, maybe a day depending on their willingness to let him sleep there. He sighed as he rested at the bus stop at the corner of the sidewalk, using the back and sides as cover as he sat on the bench with the muzzle of his weapon aimed directly ahead at anyone stupid enough to walk in front of the bus stop. He waited, his eyelids fluttering occasionally. No, this was not the time for napping. Sleeping on the streets is simply asking for death. He opened his eyes wide, and the moment he did, he saw it. A man that donned a black overcoat, a baseball cap and a facemask walked into view.

The boy huffed, holding his breath as he aimed down the sights of his machine gun, the hand on the grip of his weapon extended the thumb, pressing the select fire with the tip of his thumb and moving it to semi-automatic with a faint click. His index finger gently squeezed the trigger of his weapon as the sights followed the man. The man sluggishly continued to walk, like as if he had nowhere else to go but where he was walking. No set goals, no direction, just himself, alone to face the stone-cold city and it's ruthless inhabitants. Then, the trigger soon gave into the weight that his finger was pressing onto it, causing the weapon to fire a single round down range. The boy shook and was startled by the suddenness of the shot, and looked up at where he had shot. Where the man was once standing, he was no longer there.

The boy quickly got up from where he was sitting and ran across the street to the other side, looking down on the ground where the man lay. Not a sound to be heard from him, but his eyes were wide open, and his chest would fill and deflate as he breathed. He was very much so alive, but there was a dark spot where the bullet had entered, blood staining the dark coat. The boy folded the stock on his firearm, pulling the rucksack off his back as the man stared at him. He opened his bag and gently placed the gun inside of the bag, before closing it and picking it back up, slinging it over his shoulders. He then lifted the bottom of his hood and pulled his PM out from the holster attached to his waist, walking around the man until the tip of his shoes were positioned at the man's head. The man closed his eyes, accepting his fate as the boy pressed the barrel of the pistol to the man's forehead.

"I'm sorry." the boy spoke, the man smiling underneath his mask.

"I don't blame you. I would have done the same." He replied, and the boy frowned in response. He didn't want to finish him off, but he had no choice. Everyone is an enemy, nobody is meant to be trusted.

"Better you than me." The boy said, and the man nodded.

"Do it."