Chapter 2: Heroes with Blood on Their Hands
The blood wasn't red like he thought it would be.
It was too dark. Too thick. It crept in every direction — between floorboards, under the table, soaking into the couch like it belonged there.
Hernan sat in it anyway.
His knees were wet. The sleeves of his shirt were smeared with it from where he'd tried to reach out. His hand still clutched his father's shoulder, but Solaris didn't move. He wasn't warm anymore.
Neither was his mother.
She lay crumpled near the window, arm twisted underneath her, half her face hidden in shadow. Hernan couldn't bring himself to walk over to her. It felt wrong — like stepping into something sacred. Like he'd make it worse.
He'd stopped crying a while ago.
His body had tried, for a time. Gasping. Shaking. The kind of crying where no sound came out, only the ache. But now there was nothing left.
Just the hum of scorched power lines behind the walls. The distant buzz of his father's shattered communicator. And the dripping.
Somewhere in the kitchen, water still ran. A pipe must have broken.
Hernan turned his eyes upward. The ceiling above the living room had cracked straight through — a jagged split like lightning frozen in plaster.