CJ
Lancer
Chicago wasn’t a city. It was a test. A system built to see what broke first, your body, your will, or your name. We grew up in its gutters and stairwells, learned how to keep our heads down and our blades sharp. Every cop had a price. Every gang had rules. You played both or you got buried between them.
We didn’t dream of freedom. We dreamed of breathing through tomorrow. Of making it home without hearing your name on someone else’s tongue. You learned fast who you could trust, and the answer was always no one. That was the first lesson.
When that shit out of New Mexico happened, people acted like the sky falling was new. But we’d been living under a falling sky our whole lives. The rest of the world called it a disaster. We called it Tuesday. Portal storms, vanishing towns, things crawling through walls that weren’t supposed to be there, it didn’t surprise us. It just confirmed what we already knew: nothing was stable, and nothing was safe.
New Mexico didn’t start anything. It just exposed the truth. The system was already cracked. The collapse wasn’t a scream, only a sigh. And when the they came to sweep up the ashes, there wasn’t anything left to defend.
We didn’t join up. Didn’t fight, either. We moved. Found new corners, new angles. We knew how to live between the lines, how to barter, how to disappear. That was our survival. Not strength. Not belief. Just motion.
The world ended. And we did what we’d always done.
We adapted.