The rain had eased into something almost manageable by the time Killian left the truck two blocks from the pharmacy district, close enough to walk the rest of the way without risking the flooded intersections that had swallowed half the main road already.
He moved quietly, hood up against the drizzle, one hand resting near the knife at his hip out of habit rather than immediate necessity. The streets here had been picked over already, evident in the shattered storefront windows and the particular emptiness of a place that had already given up everything easy to take. Which was, in its own way, useful information — it meant fewer survivors competing for what remained, fewer complications to navigate.
He reached the first target of the night: a small, independent pharmacy that had somehow escaped the worst of the district's earlier looting, its security gate still intact, its windows unbroken.
He rested his palm against the lock and let his ability do the rest.
