4338.209 · July 28, 2018 AD
The Architecture of Holding On
A severed head on a stake. A camp that fits in a single glance. And a newcomer who keeps mentioning his wife and toddler as though repetition might build a bridge home. Paul knows the script — give the man a role before despair sets in, pitch the problem, introduce the solution, keep moving. He's been running this playbook all day. The trouble is, every time he claps someone on the back and says they'll be alright, he walks away a little faster than the moment before.
The shadow panther's head greets them at the gate — jaws frozen, teeth still carrying old blood, dead eyes patient as though waiting for the next opportunity. Paul has walked past it enough times to know the dread doesn't fade with repetition. For Nial, seeing it for the first time, it's the thing that finally makes the impossible undeniable.
Paul does what Paul does. He gives the horror a purpose — fencing skills, security perimeters, supply chains through the Portal. He introduces Nial to Karen and Chris with the polished cadence of a man who's spent years turning chaos into agendas. He frames survival as infrastructure and watches the logic land exactly as intended.
But the performance is developing cracks. Kain limps away toward the lagoon carrying something he won't name. Nial's voice breaks on the word "toddler" and Paul feels every locked drawer in his chest rattle at once. And when the introductions are done and the pitch has been delivered, Paul promises to get Nial settled — then walks away before finishing the sentence, his legs already carrying him toward the next crisis while his mouth is still making commitments to the one behind him.
