This is not how the story goes, and the prose sucks. I specialize as mostly a poet in prose.
CHAPTER ONE — Prose Draft
First‑person, the Soldier’s voice. Quiet, observational, restrained. Emotional arc: a man choosing smallness while the world collapses outside.
I liked the library because it was the only room in the prison that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone. The gangs didn’t claim it. The guards didn’t bother with it. Even the warden forgot it existed. It was a leftover space—quiet, dusty, and mostly ignored. That suited me fine. I’d spent most of my life trying to be ignored.
The was already there when I walked in, sitting in his usual chair by the radio. He always arrived first. He said it was because he liked the quiet before the day started, but I knew the truth: he didn’t sleep much. Men with memories like his rarely did.
He nodded when he saw me. That was our greeting. No names. No questions. Just the nod.
I sat across from him, the radio between us on the table. It was an old thing, metal edges dented, antenna bent like a broken finger. But it worked. It always worked. The had fixed it a dozen times, maybe more. He said machines were easier than people—they didn’t lie, and they didn’t pretend.
The morning broadcast from Sanctuary Chicago was already playing. A woman’s voice, calm and steady, like she was reading bedtime stories instead of evacuation routes.
“…if you are within fifty miles of the river, move inland immediately. Repeat: move inland. Sanctuary 2 remains operational. We are printing additional housing units. Food distribution begins at noon…”
The turned the volume up a little. He liked her voice. Said it reminded him of someone he used to know, though he never said who.
“You think they’ll hold?” he asked.
He always asked. Every morning. Same question.
I shrugged. “They’ve held this long.”
He smiled at that—one of those small, tired smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
He accepted that. He always did.
The radio crackled, then shifted to static before the signal steadied again. The woman continued, unbothered. She talked about weather patterns, safe routes, missing persons. She talked like the world wasn’t falling apart. Like she believed someone out there was still listening.
The and I were listening. That counted for something.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. A guard passed by the door, glanced in, saw us, and kept walking. He didn’t bother telling us to get back to our cells. Nobody cared if we sat in the library. We weren’t trouble. Not anymore.
The leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “You hear about the coasts?”
“Everyone’s heard.”
“Hundreds of millions,” he said softly. “Gone.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have anything to say to that.
He looked at me for a long moment. “You ever think about what you’d do if you were out there?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t argue. He knew me too well.
The radio shifted again, this time to a news bulletin. Something about the Koch Bloc consolidating power in Washington. Something about the Northern Coalition refusing to recognize the new government. Something about militias forming in the Midwest.
The world was cracking open, and we were sitting in a forgotten library listening to it happen.
The shook his head. “Strange times.”
“Strange enough.”
He studied me the way he always did—quietly, without judgment. “You’re waiting,” he said.
“For what?”
“For the world to stop asking things of you.”
I didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped inside. Not a guard. Not an inmate I recognized. He carried a small duffel bag and looked like he’d been running for days. His clothes were torn, his face sunburned, his eyes wide with exhaustion.
“Is this the library?” he asked.
The nodded. “You lost?”
“Refugee intake sent me here,” the man said. “Said I could rest.”
He set the bag down and sank into a chair near the back. After a moment, he pulled out a small camera—old, scratched, held together with tape. He checked the battery, frowned, and set it aside.
The leaned toward me. “Journalist?”
“Looks like it.”
The man must’ve heard us, because he looked up and gave a tired smile. “Juan,” he said. “Juan Fuentes.”
I nodded. “Library’s quiet.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time in days.
The radio crackled again.
“…Sanctuary 2 remains operational. We repeat: Sanctuary 2 remains operational…”
The opened his eyes and looked at me.
“You ever think,” he said quietly, “that maybe the world isn’t done with you yet?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I had.
And I hated that I had.
If you want the next chapter in prose, I can continue the voice and emotional arc seamlessly.
SCOTT HERE, NOT AI
Yeah, this does not even have the opening scene right, but... short, the AI
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