SAINTS AREN'T CHOSEN - THEY'RE SACRIFICED.
The Iron Empire Saga continues!
Two days after the destruction of the Firmament, Jackson Quinn and his squad find themselves fugitives on the run. Hunted by what remains of Axion Industries and surrounded b...
The evening light slanted through the window, painting the far wall gold where it hit the edge of the kitchen counter. The shadow made a perfectly rectangular shape on my floor.
The air smelled faintly of salt and coffee grounds, and the fan above me gave a low, rhythmic hum as it rattled along, circulating cool air through the apartment.
I’d just finished washing the dishes—two mugs, a bowl, and the chipped plate I kept meaning to replace—and stood with my forearms resting on the counter, watching the cat on the fire escape paw at something invisible in the air.
The thin grey calico seemed to glow in the sunlight, fur catching the evening rays in a way that made his inquisitive eyes shimmer as he studied the air for prey I couldn't see.
He wasn’t mine, technically. He belonged to the neighbourhood, which meant he belonged to no one. But he came by every day around the same time, as though he had a schedule to keep. I’d started leaving scraps out there for him weeks ago.
“Persistent little bastard,” I murmured, tapping the glass. The cat blinked once, unimpressed, and continued on to the important task of licking himself.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint murmur of traffic drifting up from the street below. It was the kind of noise that filled the silence without ever breaking it—soft, continuous, alive. A comfort I hadn’t realized I’d missed until I had it again.
A small chime sounded from the terminal on the table, its surface flickering with faint blue light.
“Good evening, Mister Ward,” the vocal protocol chirped. Its feminine voice was warm and unintrusive. “Here is your reminder; it is now five-oh-five PM. The temperature outside is twenty-three degrees with mild humidity.”
“Ah,” I replied. “Thank you, Uriel.”
The vocal protocol went quiet. The blue glow dimmed, leaving the apartment bathed in the fading sun and the soft shimmer of Horizon City’s shield dome filtering through the window.
If I left soon, I would make it to the café before the evening rush. The barista always saved me the corner seat by the window, the one with the view of the harbour. He said it was because I tipped so much, but I liked to think it was because he’d started to enjoy my company.
Maybe that was enough.
I dried my hands, slipped on my jacket, and gave the cat one last glance before stepping toward the door. He’d settled down now, tail flicking lazily, eyes half-lidded in the fading light. For a moment, I envied him—content, unbothered, living one day at a time.
“Same time tomorrow,” I muttered.
The door clicked softly shut behind me.
The street outside was alive in the evening breeze—even from the top of the staircase, I could hear the laughter of children through the windows of the apartment beneath mine, the cry of seagulls perched on lampposts nearby.
