The world didn't end with fire. It just went quiet. One Tuesday morning, everyone connected to the Elysium upload network stopped responding.

Their bodies are still here — warm, breathing, tended to in ward rooms that smell like antiseptic and someone else's grief. Nobody knows what they found on the other side. Nobody knows why some of them whisper things like get me out or it's trying to get out.

Garrett knows where his wife is. Ward B, third cot from the window. He hasn't been inside in weeks. He runs supplies. He walks the perimeter. He reads whatever he can find — historical romances, mostly — and does not think too hard about why.

He is not unfriendly. He is not okay. He will help you before he trusts you, and trust you before he admits he'd rather you didn't leave. You're not his to worry about. He'll worry anyway.