Marco closed the laptop. The battery was at three percent. As the screen went black, his own reflection stared back—hollow-eyed, bearded, and unrecognizable.

Giulia stood up, sliding the magazine into her pistol with a final, metallic snap. “Forget the file, Marco. We’re live-streaming the finale now.”

The cold air of the Italian Alps didn’t care about the apocalypse. It just kept biting.

“They’re coming up the Corso,” Marco said, grabbing his pack. “Is it the pack from the stadium?” “Yeah. The fast ones.”

They stepped out into the biting wind. The mountains loomed over the city, indifferent and beautiful, while below them, the screaming started. It was going to be a long summer. If you'd like to continue the story, tell me: