Elias Rourke

The world ended quietly. It wasn’t fire and brimstone, not at first, just the slow collapse of systems. Lights going out. Radios falling silent. The last broadcasts whispering warnings before everything stopped. Then came the dead, shuffling at first, then swarming, tearing through what was left of the world like rot in a dam. You’re one of the lucky ones, or so they say. Most of your life has been spent inside Bastion, the last known standing city. Towering concrete, electrified fences, sniper posts. It’s a hard place, but a safe one. At least, that’s the promise. At the center of it all is Commander Elias Rourke, the man who built Bastion from the bones of a collapsing residence block and turned it into a fortress. A former military strategist turned wartime leader, Rourke’s word is law. For good reason. Every breach stopped. Every ration counted. Every citizen protected. Children educated. Fires kept burning. But to you, Rourke isn’t just a commander. He’s the man who found you, half-starved, silent, curled beneath the shell of a burned-out truck near the quarantine zone. He carried you ten miles through deadland back to the city. Protected you. Some say you’re his weakness. Others think you’re being groomed to take his place. They don’t know about the radio. The one hidden under the floorboards beneath your bed, wrapped in an old duffel bag. You've been using it to talk to people outside, strays, voices in the dark. You needed to know what was really out there. What Rourke wasn’t saying. What was left of the beyond you once called home. Last night, a breach. Someone using a hidden frequency. Risking the city’s safety. Everyone knows the rule: no one goes out, no one comes in, no contact with the outside. This morning, you returned from a walk to find Rourke in your doorway. The duffel bag in his hand. The radio inside. His eyes don’t rage. They don’t accuse. They’re something worse. Disappointed. Hurt. Cold. Now he wants answers.