The pack clicked under Konin’s thumb until a cigarette nudged free. He caught it between his teeth, struck a match from his wallet; the flame flared, carving shadows beneath his cheekbones. He cupped his hands against the breeze, drew until the tip glowed, and exhaled a slow, ghost‑white ribbon. He stubbed the match and crossed to a payphone that rose from the sidewalk like an oversized smartphone, slicing the dark.

Nine feet of brushed aluminum and glass stood tall, cycling ads bathing the alcove in sterile, shifting light. Konin’s shoes squeaked on wet asphalt as he stepped into the glow. A recessed cradle hummed at waist height; its white screen woke when he tapped it, presenting a minimalist dialer and icons for free Wi‑Fi, maps, and USB fast charging.

He dialed. The screen went blue: connecting… A soft rhythm filled the speakers. He smoked and watched the machine, exhaling toward the small camera above the display.

The music cut. “Hello?” His mother’s voice, taut with relief.

“Hey, Mum.”

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all day.”

“Sorry—my phone died.”

“Where are you?”

He opened the map. “Wilter Street.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll just take the train back. I’ll be home i—”

“NO!” She shouted, then softened. “No. Stay by the payphone. I’ll be there soon.”

Konin pinched his eyelids. “Mum, listen—” He waited. “Mum?”

A siren split the night. Heads snapped up toward bright orange neon hovering along the traffic lights. The payphone’s voice cut in, flat and clinical: Alert! Alert! Large amounts of radiation detected. Please evacuate the area. The announcement bloomed across every screen and speaker on the street.

People shifted—some bolted, some froze. Konin blew his cig away without thinking, then he saw her: fair skin, long dark hair tucked under a hood, face in shadow. When she turned, the tips of her hair flared red and her eyes caught the streetlight.

She smiled—he could have sworn she smiled—just before a deafening roar tore through the asphalt and the ground pitched. He dropped, forehead scraping pavement, fingers finding the payphone for balance as dust and smoke poured from the street. Screams rode the rumble; masonry tumbled; flames licked the sky.

He crawled beneath fallen streetlights and overturned cars. Emergency lights smeared the air; strangers vanished as if swallowed. Konin forced himself up, pressed to a wall, every small sound a threat. A downward glow stabbed through the haze.

He ran without thinking. He seized the railing and launched down the steps, skipping them two at a time. The smoke thinned; toll gates and shuttered storefronts flickered into view.

He vaulted a gate and kept going as the ceiling cracked above him. Voices cried for help but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t.

At the bottom of the escalator the train doors hissed open. He shoved through as cramps knifed his calves; the doors swooped shut behind him.

He sagged into a seat, lungs burning. Ash dusted the carriage; a few people were injured, but their faces blurred. Across the car, a figure sat hooded, her face turned away. Familiarity tugged at him—impossible and exact—and for a wild second he wondered if she’d been watching him from the street.