Four days passed.
Or maybe five.
Evan could not have said for sure.
Since the first duel, time no longer felt like much of anything. The days stretched on, empty and heavy, then vanished without leaving any real mark behind. He slept badly. Ate little. Spent long stretches sitting still, staring at the wall or the black television screen without even realizing it.
His mother's phone almost never left his pocket.
Sometimes, just feeling it against his thigh gave him the absurd impression that she was still a little bit there.
Not alive.
Not really.
But not completely gone either.
He knew it was ridiculous.
He kept it with him anyway.
That morning, he had already been awake for a long time when someone knocked on his door.
The sound was light, but it still made him jolt violently.
His heart started pounding too fast. For a second, he almost thought he could hear the voice from the box again.
Then he remembered where he was.
His living room.
His apartment.
The gray morning.
Someone knocked a second time.
Evan got up slowly and went to open the door.
The neighbor from the third floor was standing there. The one who had spoken to him in the hallway a few days earlier.
She was holding a folded sheet of paper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
"Sorry," she said immediately. "We're just going around to all the apartments."
Her voice was low, but less shaky than the first time.
"There are a few people who want to meet downstairs, in the lobby. Just to talk a little. Figure out how to organize things."
Evan looked at her without answering.
She lowered her eyes a little.
"It's nothing complicated," she added. "Just... finding out who's here. Whether anyone needs medicine. Or groceries. That kind of thing."
She hesitated.
"And maybe keeping everyone from staying alone."
That last sentence lingered between them.
Evan looked at the sheet she was holding out to him. Several names were already written on it. Apartment numbers. A few quick notes.
water
generator?
food
elderly residents
first-aid kit
Just seeing those words written out in black and white gave him a strange feeling.
As if the whole building was finally admitting that the old world was not coming back.
"What time?" he asked.
"In twenty minutes."
He nodded.
"Okay."
The neighbor seemed relieved.
"I'm Claire, by the way."
"Evan."
She gave him a small nod.
"See you in a bit."
When she left, Evan closed the door and stood there for a moment.
He looked at the living room.
Then the kitchen.
Then his mother's phone on the table.
In the end, he picked it up again and slipped it into his pocket before heading out.
The building lobby was more crowded than he had ever seen it.
Not a crowd. Ten people, maybe a few more. Neighbors Evan recognized by sight without knowing their names. An old woman from the ground floor. A couple from the fourth. A student he sometimes passed with headphones on. Two people he had never seen before, probably relatives who had come to stay with someone here after the first duel.
A folding table had been set up near the mailboxes. On it were a few bottles, an open pack of cookies, a notebook, and two pens.
The neighbor from the third floor, the one who had spoken to him the other day, started talking in a voice a little too loud, as if he were trying to convince himself he had the situation under control.
"The idea isn't to start some kind of war council," he said. "Just... to know who's here. Who lives alone. Who needs help. Who can help out."
A few people nodded.
Others kept their arms crossed, shut off.
The man went on,
"The stores are still open, but for how long, we don't know. The news keeps changing. And emergency services are overwhelmed everywhere. So... yeah. We might as well talk to each other."
A woman immediately agreed.
"Yes. We should at least make a list of the elderly and anyone who needs important medication."
"And water supplies," someone added.
"And figure out if we should lock the front door at night," said someone else.
Next to Evan, a gaunt man shook his head.
"I'm not giving away what I have to people I don't know."
Silence fell for a moment.
Claire answered calmly,
"No one asked you to give everything away."
"For now," the man muttered.
A faint tension moved through the group.
Not real hostility yet.
But something was already starting to take shape.
People were no longer looking at each other the same way they used to.
They were measuring one another.
Trying to guess:
who would help,
who would shut down,
who would panic,
who might become dangerous.
The old woman from the ground floor timidly raised her hand.
"Maybe we should pray together too," she said. "Just... for the dead."
No one laughed at her.
But no one answered right away either.
A young man near the door exhaled sharply.
"What I really want to know is whether it's going to happen again."
The silence that followed was much heavier than the ones before.
Evan felt the back of his neck stiffen.
The neighbor from the third floor tried a tired smile.
"We don't know."
"Exactly," the young man shot back. "That's the problem."
A woman farther back murmured,
"The ship is still there."
Another silence.
Then, as if the idea itself was too unbearable to hear for any longer, someone abruptly changed the subject.
"We could take turns doing grocery runs."
The discussion resumed, but it was no longer the same.
The real subject was still there, in the middle of the lobby, even if no one really dared to look at it.
The ship.
The box.
The possibility that it was not over.
Evan stayed until the end without saying much.
He listened as the neighbors divided up simple tasks:
who would check on the old woman downstairs,
who would go to the pharmacy,
who would go through the floors to see if anyone needed anything.
When the meeting ended, some stayed behind in small groups to talk.
Others went back upstairs immediately, as if they already regretted coming down.
A door slammed somewhere higher up in the stairwell.
Someone was already saying they should barricade the basement.
Someone else was talking about going to stay with a sister in the countryside.
Evan went back up to his apartment with a strange feeling.
The building was trying to become something.
Not a community, not yet.
Just a group of frightened people trying to hold together before fear drove each of them apart.
Early that afternoon, Hugo finally texted him.
You going out today?
Evan stared at the screen for a few seconds before replying.
I can head out for a bit.
The answer came almost immediately.
Want to walk? I need some air.
Evan looked at the phone for another second.
Then typed:
Okay. 20 mins?
Okay
They met halfway between their buildings, near a square that was almost empty.
Hugo looked a little less drained than the last time.
Not better.
Just more stable on the surface.
Enough to stay standing without looking like he was about to collapse at any second.
They started walking side by side with no real destination.
At first, neither of them spoke.
The streets were livelier than they had been the day after the first duel, but nothing about the atmosphere felt normal.
Lines had formed in front of some stores.
Soldiers were stationed at an intersection farther down, near metal barricades.
A delivery truck stood motionless in front of a convenience store, with no one seeming to know what to do with it.
On a bus shelter, several printed posters had been pasted over each other.
STAY UNITED
GOD IS TESTING US
DON'T LOOK UP
THEY ARE STILL CHOOSING
Some had already been half torn down.
Hugo was the first to speak.
"My dad barely sleeps anymore."
Evan turned his head slightly toward him.
Hugo ran a hand over his face.
"He spends hours in front of her bedroom door. Like... like she's going to come back."
They walked on for a few seconds.
"My mother used to do that too," Evan said without thinking.
Hugo looked up at him.
Evan felt his throat tighten, but kept going anyway.
"Not for the same reasons. When I was a kid. When I was sick... or when I came home late."
He paused.
"She always checked to make sure I was there."
He let out a short, joyless laugh.
"It's stupid, the kind of things you think about now."
"No," Hugo said. "It's not."
They passed a closed bakery. Through the window, overturned chairs were still visible, along with a tray left behind on the counter.
"Can you sleep?" Hugo asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
"As soon as I close my eyes, I see the box again."
Hugo stayed silent.
Then he said, very quietly,
"I don't see the box."
Evan turned his head toward him.
Hugo was looking straight ahead.
"I see what happened when I came back," he continued. "My dad screaming her name in the apartment. That's what keeps replaying in my head."
Evan found nothing to say.
Because he understood too well.
They reached a small intersection where a few people had gathered around a man standing on a low wall.
He was speaking loudly, arms spread, eyes shining.
"You can see it, can't you?" he was shouting. "They're watching us! This isn't an invasion. It's a selection!"
Some people were listening.
Others were yelling insults at him.
A woman was crying, repeating that she just wanted her son back.
Hugo looked away.
"There are more and more guys like that."
"Yeah."
"On TV too. On the internet it's even worse."
Evan looked up at the sky.
The ship still dominated everything.
Even when you tried not to think about it, all it took was one glance upward to remember it was there.
"What do you think?" Hugo asked suddenly.
"About what?"
"All of this."
Evan almost felt like laughing.
"I'm already having a hard time figuring out what's real."
Hugo nodded.
"Yeah."
They crossed the street.
A little farther on, they came across a small argument in front of a gas station.
Two men were fighting over a gas can. A woman was trying to separate them. No one had hit anyone yet, but it felt close.
One of the soldiers finally stepped in and forced them apart.
"It's starting," Hugo murmured.
Evan did not ask what he meant.
He already knew.
Not it's starting like a war.
It's starting like the fracture.
The fear getting into everything.
Logic beginning to bend.
People still holding on, but not as well as yesterday.
They kept walking until they reached the square.
A few children were still playing, but differently.
Even from a distance, you could feel it.
The parents barely spoke to each other. They constantly watched the sky, the fence, the other adults, their own children.
No one seemed capable of relaxing.
Hugo sat down on a bench. Evan did the same.
For a while, they just sat there in silence, watching the square.
Then Hugo asked,
"In your box... what did you do?"
The question came without warning.
Evan immediately felt his shoulders tense.
"Nothing," he said.
Hugo turned his head slightly toward him.
"Nothing?"
"Almost nothing."
Evan stared at the ground in front of his shoes.
"We didn't really move. We waited. In the end... they picked him."
Hugo lowered his gaze too.
"Same."
Silence returned.
Then Hugo exhaled softly.
"Do you think people are eventually going to ask?"
"Ask what?"
Hugo looked at him.
"What we did in the box."
Something cold moved through Evan's stomach.
Yes.
Of course that would come.
Maybe not today.
But one day, yes.
Survivors would eventually start looking at each other differently.
Not just as victims.
As people who came back.
And for some, that would inevitably mean: people who killed.
"I don't know," he said at last.
Hugo nodded slowly.
"My dad asked me if I did."
Evan turned sharply toward him.
"What?"
"This morning."
His voice was empty.
"He didn't say it in a bad way. He just... wanted to know, I think."
Hugo let out a short, dry laugh.
"That felt worse than an accusation."
Evan said nothing.
He could picture the scene perfectly.
The father, shattered.
The son, returned.
And that impossible thought, which still ended up existing anyway:
what did you have to do to still be here?
A light wind rose.
Somewhere farther off in the square, someone started praying out loud.
"I hate this waiting," Hugo said after a while.
Evan did not answer immediately.
"Me too."
"We don't know anything. We can't do anything. We're just waiting for something else to happen."
Evan tightened his hands slightly.
Yes.
That was exactly it.
It was not even just the fear of what had already happened anymore.
It was worse.
It was the fear of what could still happen.
They stayed outside a little longer, then parted without ceremony.
Not because they had nothing left to say.
But because neither of them had the energy to pretend they were doing better.
When Evan got home, the late-day light was already beginning to fade.
In the building, someone had added new names to the sheet in the lobby.
Someone else had written in pen:
door locked from 10 p.m.
And underneath, in different handwriting:
if it happens again, that won't change anything
Evan stood there reading that sentence for a second too long.
Then he went upstairs.
At home, everything was the same.
The silence.
The living room.
His mother's phone.
He set his own phone down on the table, then almost immediately pulled his mother's phone back out of his pocket.
The screen was scratched in one corner.
Nothing serious.
Just enough to remind him it was real.
He sat down on the couch and kept it in his hand.
Deep down, he knew it was useless now.
He was no longer waiting for it to ring.
He was no longer waiting for a message.
He kept it because if he let it go, he felt like he would be giving up something more than just plastic and glass.
Outside, night was falling.
The ship had not moved an inch.
The television was still talking about gatherings, tensions, military convoys, local shortages, group prayers, failed attempts to approach the ship.
No answers.
Still none.
Evan slowly raised his eyes toward the dark window.
Then, despite himself, he imagined the white box again.
The timer.
The voice.
The red beam.
His heart immediately started racing.
He looked back down at his mother's phone in his hand.
And this time, the thought was clearer than it had been in the days before.
Not a vague intuition.
Almost a conviction.
Something was not over.
Maybe the hardest part was not the first duel.
Maybe the hardest part was the waiting.