Of Crafting and Guests.

The Comfort Buff wore off sometime between waking up and nearly burning my tongue on reheated ration stew.

Which, for the record, tasted like damp cardboard, regret, and something vaguely pork-adjacent. And by "pork-adjacent," I mean "made a pig once cry in the next room." Still, calories were calories, and I had a busy day ahead. Or at least a paranoid, overplanned, duct-tape-heavy one.

After days work, well half since I might have kind of left early? Will do overtime next time, promise. I made my way to my warehouse,

At the warehouse it had felt... different since yesterday. Not just because we'd carved out a decent space or because Rusty had made that cursed four-crate table into an actual workstation. It was the atmosphere. Like it finally acknowledged I wasn't just passing through anymore.

This was mine. Sort of. At least until a ceiling tile caved in or an infected squirrel dropped out of a vent. For that matter can animals be infected? Don't remember anything about it in the game, hopefully they don't because If I get infected due to a stupid fucking rat biting my ankles while I am sleeping I will loose it.

I did a quick status check while kicking nearby crates seeing if they'd be easy to open or not

[SYSTEM STATUS – QUICK GLANCE]EXP:

110 / 150

SP: 4

Condition: Stable

Buffs: None

Active Base Zones:

Work Area (Primitive)

Storage Corner (Unorganized)

Resting Spot (Uninsulated, Temporary)

Doing daily tasks for EXP is not much but its honest work.

Though maybe it should give me more than just 5, for that matter I need quests that give more exp as the higher levels unlock more features, summons and supplies, by the time I hit 100lvl I will probably be dead at this rate of exp gain.

Rusty meanwhile was humming something tuneless nearby, using an old screwdriver to pry apart a busted cassette player. Every time a spark flew, I flinched. He didn't. That either meant he had nerves of steel or he'd been electrocuted too many times to care.

"So," I said between gulps, "we need water. Actual drinkable water. That thing I keep pretending doesn't matter."

Rusty looked up. "Tried licking the condensation on pipe fittings?"

"Tempting, but I'd rather not get tetanus in seven new languages."

He tossed me a grimy thermos. "Found that in a locker. Was full of what I think used to be tea. Or rust."

I opened it, sniffed, regretted it, closed it again. "We'll keep it for parts."

"Smart. Also found some filters, gas mask cartridges, mostly. Not for drinking, but if you get creative…"

That made me pause.

Creative filtration. Boiling. Maybe some sort of makeshift purifier? I added it to my mental to-do list. Water. Heating. Storage. In that order.

And food. God, food. Rusty could live off dust and banter, but I was still technically a growing boy, and if I kept living on half-biscuits and air, I'd be growing into a coffin.

I pulled out my battered notebook, flipped past crude sketches of crate layouts and one doodle of a rat with a top hat (don't ask), and started scribbling.

—Survival To-Do—

Water system (boil + filter = maybe not dead)

Bedding that doesn't feel like sleeping on depression

Makeshift stove?

Crate inventory (we still don't know what's under 98% of this crap)

Secure extra entrance in case of "bad surprises"

I tapped the pencil against the page, thinking.

"You ever build anything long-term before?" I asked Rusty.

He raised an eyebrow. "Kid, I once built a shower out of a gutter pipe, a coffee can, and three stolen spoons. In January."

"That a yes?"

"That's a 'hell yes.' What're you thinkin'?"

"Heat. Shelter. Maybe something that doesn't scream 'mold death' every time I lie down."

Rusty stood, stretching his back with a series of crackles that sounded like a tree giving up. "Then we need insulation, a decent seal around this room, and something softer than a busted floor tile to sleep on."

"Rags?"

"Or old padding. There's locker room crap somewhere in the back. I remember smelling it."

"Charming."

He grinned. "Survival isn't pretty. It's functional. Let's build you a nest."

I looked around the space we'd claimed. Still rough, but it was taking shape. Not just a hidey-hole now. A foundation.

The warehouse wasn't just where I hid anymore. It was becoming where I lived.

And if I was gonna keep dragging summoned people into this mess, they deserved better than cold concrete and gloom. Hell, so did I.

Time to build a home. Or at least a reasonable facsimile of one using discarded junk, reeking insulation, and sheer spite.

The back of the warehouse was darker than usual today. Not just "creepy basement" dark. More like "a flashlight might summon a demon" dark. The kind of dark that felt like it whispered when your back was turned.

Naturally, we went there first.

Rusty had rigged an old lamp to the stripped battery of a FEDRA handheld. It buzzed faintly when he clicked it on, casting our path in a flickering, jaundiced glow. Real horror movie ambiance.

"Still convinced this place isn't haunted?" I asked.

"No," Rusty said without hesitation. "But ghosts usually don't steal blankets."

Fair.

We stepped past the cleared zone and into unexplored territory: rows of ceiling-high metal shelves, rusted carts, bins stacked with tarp bundles, and that ever-present dust coating everything like the world's saddest snow.

"Keep your eyes open," I muttered. "We're looking for anything that can warm, pad, or not give us a rash within thirty seconds."

"Low bar."

"My standards died two rations ago."

Rusty grunted and wandered left. I checked the crates nearest me.

First one? Old rain ponchos and what might've been a shredded parachute. Moldy, but still usable if aired out, worse scenario just stack it on top of eachother for a bed.

Second? Foam mats, now we talking. Its the blue kind they used to toss in school gyms, only now they smelled like burnt tires. Still, potential bedding. I started dragging them into a pile.

Third crate was locked. I made a note to come back with the crowbar.

I kept sifting. Found three cracked canteens, a dusty electric kettle, a box of gauze rolls that had fused into one giant medical sponge, and a plastic bag full of something labeled "emergency meal bars – 2023."

I didn't open them. Not because I was scared.

Because I respected the contents' right to remain legally dead.

Rusty called over. "Hey! Found the jackpot."

I walked over. He was grinning like a gremlin beside a half-collapsed shelving unit.

"Old locker pads," he said proudly. "Sweaty. Smelly. But still soft."

"Your enthusiasm is disturbing."

He held one up like a trophy. "This one even has 'Coach Rizzo' written on it in faded Sharpie."

"That's either haunted or cursed."

"Or both," he said cheerfully, slinging it over his shoulder.

I helped him grab two more and stack them by the cleared zone, while also dragging the mats I found.

Then the system chimed. That little familiar flicker in my brain like a bell being rung underwater.

[NEW SIDE MISSION UNLOCKED – Utilities of the Damned]Description: Acquire at least three components for essential utilities: heating, water purification, and bedding. Create a basic survival setup in your claimed base area.Reward: +90 EXP, +1 Passive Buff (Warmth – Temporary)

I blinked. Then checked the growing pile beside me.

Pad for bedding? Check.Old kettle for boiling water? Technically.Power source? If the battery didn't fry us first.

One more item should seal it.

"Rusty," I said, tapping the list mentally, "you find anything that doesn't immediately scream 'you'll die touching this'?"

He tossed me a length of insulated wire. "This hum?"

"Close enough."

I stacked the items neatly in the base corner and felt the system shiver again.

[MISSION COMPLETE – Utilities of the Damned]+90 EXP+1 Passive Buff: Warmth (Temporary)[LEVEL PROGRESS: 50/ 200EXP]

Warmth hit me like a soft breath. Not literal heat—but a dull comfort, like the cold had stopped trying so hard to murder me.

Rusty raised an eyebrow. "You just look like someone gave you a hug."

"Terrifying thought," I replied. "Let's never speak of it again."

He snorted and began unfolding one of the pads into a sort-of mattress. "You know, this dump's starting to feel like a real rat nest, though the rat seems to have died."

I nod. "High praise."

I didn't say it, but he was right. Between the lights, the storage, the scrap gear, and now a heating setup that didn't involve spontaneous combustion, we were inching toward stability.

That was dangerous.

Because the second you start to feel safe, something always reminds you you're not.

The moment Rusty got his hands on actual tools, the man transformed from exasperated hobo to post-apocalyptic MacGyver.

I mean, not good MacGyver. But determined MacGyver. The kind of guy who would build you a toaster that also filtered water and maybe occasionally electrocuted birds.

I had stacked our spare junk heap in what now passed for our Work Zone, a crate desk, two nearly flat screwdrivers, three rolls of tape (one of which may have been dried blood instead of adhesive), and a wire spool that looked like it was salvaged from a torture device.

Rusty muttered to himself as he hunched over the pile. "If I get this torch fixed, I can start cutting some of the softer seals. Won't have to keep using that glorified metal club you brought."

"You're welcome," I deadpanned, squinting at a pile of rat-bitten wires I didn't remember gathering. "Just don't burn the warehouse down. That's still Plan F."

"What's Plan E?"

"Die in a moderately heroic fashion."

"What about plan D?"

I shrugged. "I dont know, dying from alcohol poisoning or something?"

He chuckled. "Duly noted."

I took a step back and opened the System window again, flicking to the mission tracker like it might give me divine guidance or at least point me at something I could hit with a crowbar.

[BASE DEVELOPMENT – 1/3 Zones Established][Work Zone: Claimed][Next Objective: Establish Storage Zone.]

Right. Storage.

I turned toward the crates near the northern wall — ones already marked, scanned, or just plain too heavy to open. Most of them were dry, elevated, and had enough structural integrity not to kill us if they collapsed.

With a little reshuffling, I managed to designate a corner, stack a few metal bins, drag over two wire racks, and even find a plastic tub with a lid that only mostly smelled like mildew and regret.

[STORAGE ZONE ESTABLISHED][Base Development Progress: 2/3]

Two down.

I stood there for a second, catching my breath, crowbar over my shoulder, trying to pretend I wasn't mildly exhausted. Eleven-year-olds weren't meant to be running illegal underground survival compounds. They were meant to be trading Pokémon cards and pretending math wasn't real.

Too late for that now.

Rusty wandered over, hands black with grease. "So what's next, Boss?"

"Rest zone," I muttered. "Gonna make a sleeping corner before your spine permanently fuses from sleeping on concrete."

Rusty scratched his chin. "You thinking beds or bed-adjacent horrors?"

"We'll see what I can scavenge."

There was a long silence, filled only by the sound of distant dripping and the gentle hum of broken dreams.

Then Rusty said, very seriously: "You want me to get the mop bucket chair?"

"...God help me, yes."

It took half an hour, some collapsed insulation sheets, and a heroic effort with stolen zip ties, but by the end of it I had a resting corner that might pass for "comfort" if comfort had been through a war and survived with only one leg.

It was mine.

[REST ZONE ESTABLISHED][Base Development Milestone Complete]

[MISSION COMPLETE – Make Yourself at Home]+120 EXP+1 Temporary Buff: Comfort (Minor Fatigue Reduction, 24 hrs)

I slumped into the bucket chair and sighed like a man four times my age. Rusty sat on an upside-down bin beside me, chewing what looked like a ration cracker he found under a wrench.

For the first time in days, the warehouse didn't feel like a burden.

It felt like something close to ours.

Later as I was halfway through rearranging a suspiciously bug-infested mattress when I heard something clang up the sewer tunnel. Not Rusty's metal-on-metal nonsense. This was lighter. Careful.

Boots.

I turned toward the entrance corridor just as a silhouette stepped into the flickering light. One I recognized immediately.

"...Lia?"

She looked like she'd jogged halfway across the QZ and then regretted it. Her braid was half-loose, her hoodie streaked with damp tunnel dust. But it was the expression on her face that hit me — part disbelief, part suspicion, part 'I'm going to slap you later.'

"Did you seriously think I wouldn't find this?" she asked.

I blinked. "Uh. Yes?"

"Your alibi sucked," she said bluntly, stepping inside and glancing around. "And you were acting weird all day. Also? You dropped your ration bag near the treatment plant grate."

Damn it.

"I thought you had work," I muttered, trying to play it cool.

"I did," she said. "Finished early. Didn't feel like ignoring this itch in my brain all night."

I folded my arms. "And what, you just followed the tunnels?"

"No," she said. "I followed the part where your dumb ass left muddy prints and bent a drainage panel out of alignment. You've got all the stealth of a screaming ferret."

I winced. "That's... honestly fair."

She scanned the room slowly. The high rafters. The towering crates. The makeshift rest area. She spotted the chalk markings, the half-built shelving, the crowbar propped by a door.

"Okay. I admit it. This is way bigger than I expected."

"It's not much," I said carefully. "Just, uhhh, stuff I found."

"And organized. And marked. And partially looted. This isn't a fluke, Cal."

I stayed quiet.

She walked further in, now near the edge of the Rest Zone where I'd dumped the torn mattress.

"Tell me something real," she said. "I mean it."

I hesitated, then shrugged slightly. "I found this place weeks ago. It was buried under the drainage grid, no one checks it. Most people don't even know it's accessible. I scouted it, cleaned a bit, started salvaging. That's it."

She gave me a long look. "Alone?"

"Mostly. Got a... contact. A guy who was hiding down here before me. Half-mad, kind of useful."

"Let me guess," she muttered. "One of Joe's estranged cousins."

"Probably."

I sat down on the edge of a crate, letting my voice drop a little. "This isn't some organized gig. It's me trying not to die of boredom. Or hunger. Or both."

Lia crouched down, fingers brushing one of the chalk marks. "You didn't tell me."

"Why would I? You've got the whole emotionless ice princess vibe around you that would stick a knife between the ribs. Also would you have believed me anyways?"

She looked up. "First off, I feel like stabbing you between the ribs right about now. Secondly, no, but I'd have respected it more than a half-lie and a bad excuse about 'finding stuff on the streets'."

I sighed. "Sorry. I wasn't sure. I still ain't."

She stood up. "Well. Now you are."

We stared at each other for a moment. The silence wasn't hostile, exactly, just full of a thousand unspoken what-ifs. 

One what if being me bonking her on the head with the half broken shovel about 2 meters to my right.

"Alright," she said finally. "You've got a warehouse, a shadow operation, and apparently a partner. I'm in."

I blinked. "Wait what, hold on what if I want to keep it hidden and your a liability? Also is it really that easy?"

She smirked. "Not easy. Just decided. And I want a cut. You keep finding the goods, I help make them valuable. Trade routes. People to avoid. Prices. It's what I do."

"I thought what you do was stand behind a stall and pretend you hate me."

"That's only half my skillset," she replied.

I nodded slowly. "Fine. Welcome aboard."

She looked around again. "You got rats?"

"Yeah. They own the right side of this main room."

"Then we're building a left side," she said.

We sat against a crate with the least suspicious stains, watching the dull orange glow of a single work light buzz like it was fighting for its life.

"This place is huge," Lia muttered, chewing what remained of a protein bar she'd produced from her hoodie pocket. "And you've only scratched the surface?"

"Pretty much. This whole main room is fucking gigantic, with that little room in a corner filled with lockers, theres also other smaller room but cant open the door but it seems to be just a janitors closet. The room on the left is bit smaller but still massive with more crates, mostly what I think are possible building materials and others."

She finished the protein bar and threw the wrapper to the right of her. "What about that room to the right? The one welded, I know you could probably build a battering ram and knock it down or something."

"Well, maybe. But it must have been welded for a reason. A reason I sure as hell dont want to go around finding out."

She nodded and whistled lowly. "So, we're sitting on a treasure trove. No map. No guarantees. No oversight."

"Exactly how I like it."

Lia tilted her head and looked at me from the side. "You know what this means, right?"

"That I'm due for a tetanus booster?"

"It means you need to start thinking bigger," she said, suddenly serious. "Right now this is a rat's nest, and thats me being generous, however it does have a promise. But if you want to keep using it, and keep people like me from asking too many questions, you need infrastructure. A front." She also smirked lightly. "Possibly also a better cover for the entrance, maybe set up a stall there and trade from it or something?"

I raised a brow. "You're suggesting I open... what? A secret underground department store? With a front reception located between a run-down sex shop and a laundromat?"

"Maybe, but honestly we cant do something that loud, FEDRA would be here within an hour. But we could say you took over a scav operation and since your family is FEDRA and they could use protection in exchange for exclusive deals or something and information"

"Huh, you really thought about this."

"I have to," she said, pulling her knees up. "I'm not risking FEDRA interrogations just because you thought it was fun to play apocalypse raccoon. You'd probably get lighter sentence since your family is in FEDRA. I wont."

Yeah, I guess that is fair, so even if shit goes down I might get off with a slap on the wrist courtesy of FEDRA and a slap on the face courtesy of my mother. All sunshine and rainbows for me.

I tilted my head. "How would we even make it look legit?"

"Start with salvage lists, make a front man that could go and 'lead' instead of you, he could then start to trade a few small items. I know someone who handles quiet exchanges with Firefly-adjacent buyers. We don't name names, we don't take credit. It gets routed. No heat."

"And FEDRA?"

"You're the golden child of two officers. They'll look the other way if you offer them something exclusive. Extra meds. Hardware. Information, maybe a few cannon fodder for outside perimeter scouting, things their own patrols haven't found and dont want to do."

I stared at her, impressed and mildly terrified. "You've ever done something similar before? Have you been holding out on me miss kingpin of the underworld trade?"

She rolled her eyes, and scoffed "No I've survived before though," she replied simply. "And now you've got something worth surviving with."

I leaned back against the crate. "Okay. So you help with trade routes. I keep digging."

"And we both pretend this is a fluke," she added, smirking.

"And when it's not?"

"Then we act surprised."

I couldn't help it. I smiled.

There was something unsettlingly right about it — sitting in a rusted-out tomb of the old world, plotting black market strategies with a girl who could out-negotiate a vulture.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe I was just buying time before something collapsed — a ceiling, a secret, or my sanity.

Getting back into the QZ wasn't hard. Which, all things considered, was probably the scariest part.

The northern alley checkpoint near the officer blocks was manned by two guys I recognized, not by name, but by posture. One was half-asleep, nursing the kind of cough that came from moldy walls and too many cheap cigarettes. The other was scanning a clipboard like it contained the secrets to the universe, not just a list of rotating shift numbers and ration delivery timestamps.

I kept my head down, shoulders hunched like I'd been lifting boxes for hours, which, to be fair, wasn't completely untrue. Nobody looked twice. One more scrawny kid in grey, smudged with dust and walking like he was halfway to collapsing.

The moment I crossed the outer gate, the weight of the underground began slipping off my shoulders. Not all of it. Just enough to breathe without checking over mine.

Officer housing was quieter than most zones. Clean-ish. No trash fires, at least not all the time. Usually shouting matches are about something someone screwed up and is trying to blame to other guy. The hum of old electrical lines and the soft crackle of speakers playing FEDRA-approved broadcasts, messages about unity, loyalty, and not dying, yada yada. The usual bedtime stories.

I climbed the stairs to our house on autopilot. Same chipped stairs. Same flickering bulb on the ground floor that never got replaced. Same mildew stain shaped vaguely like a terrified face near apartment 3B. I still refused to look at it too long.

By the time I reached our door, my body was running on fumes and spite. I entered the keycode slowly, one digit at a time, hoping my hands wouldn't shake. The lock clicked open. I pushed inside.

Warmth.

Not real warmth. Not the kind you dream about when you picture a home. But warm enough that the cold of the sewer tunnels stopped gnawing at my skin.

The light over the kitchen flickered once, then steadied. A weak bulb, pale and yellow, hanging from a wire wrapped in electrical tape. The place smelled faintly of canned stew and scrubbed linoleum. The heater in the corner groaned like it was lifting a corpse. Standard Tuesday.

"Cal?" came Mom's voice, muffled from the kitchen.

"Yeah," I called, dropping my pack by the kitchen table. "Shift ran long."

"You get food?"

"Yeah." Another lie. "Earlier."

She didn't press. She rarely did anymore. Not out of disinterest, but because pressing meant noticing. And noticing meant questions. And questions meant answers. And answers required time she did not have to spare.

I walked past her without making eye contact. Her sleeves were rolled up. Glasses fogged. She was bent over a pot on the stovetop, poking something unidentifiable with the handle of a spoon.

Dad's coat hung on the wall hook. Stiff with rain, still carrying the stink of motor oil and tired authority. His boots were by the door, speckled with mud and something dark red. I didn't ask.

I took a short shower. Water pressure was its usual cruel joke, a minute of lukewarm followed by five of Antarctic glacier melt. The mirror was cracked. The soap was half-dissolved in the corner of the dish, and the towel was rough enough to qualify as self-defence weapon.

My ribs ached. My leg throbbed again, but only dully now, at least I will get a cool scar I can tell fake stories around a trash bonfire like old Joe. But for now? The bruises were settling into that deep purple stage where you either heal or just start collecting them like war medals.

I dressed in silence. Fresh grey pants. A backup hoodie. No rips. No blood. Nothing to give away the fact I'd spent half the day building a secret operation beneath a forgotten ruin full of locked crates and dead power lines, not to mention outside the QZ walls.

Dinner was... there. Some form of beans over old rice. I took a shallow bowl and sat at the table across from Mom. She didn't ask where I'd been. She asked if I washed my hands.

"Yeah," I muttered, spooning the food with all the enthusiasm of a kid about to lick a battery.

"You've been quieter lately," she said after a pause.

Is that concern in her voice? Holy, that's one for history books.

"Just tired." I replied, not having to fake the tone as I was genuinely tired, the crates are hard to open when your only tools are rusted, broken and some handcrafted with shit materials.

She nodded like that made perfect sense. Just another kid who is another cog in the huge failing machine called FEDRA who is staying afloat due to thoughts and prayers.

Dad came in around nine. No fanfare. Just the heavy sound of his boots, on tile and a grunt as he peeled off his jacket, his boots, thankfully different than the ones who are muddied with possible blood on them, 

He glanced at me. Said, "Homework?"

"Done."

"Any trouble?"

"No."

Except Lia finding my super, duper secret entrance and following me there, in hindsight how did no one else notice me coming and going there.

That was the extent of our bonding.

He disappeared into the tiny room we called an office — the one with a very small shortwave radio that works better than the one in the kitchen, the room also has stacks of classified folders and the empty coffee mugs that reeked of regret. I heard static. A bit of garbled chatter. Nothing I could make out. Probably reports from patrols. Movement near the checkpoint. Suspected contraband in sector four. Same shit, different frequency.

I finished eating slowly, staring at the window. The city outside flickered with uneven light. Guard towers blinked red in intervals. Beyond them, the dark line of the wall. Beyond that, the real world.

I sat there a long time.

Listening to the heater struggle.

Listening to my parents move around in patterns that had long since become habits.

Listening to the quiet hum of a home that never quite felt safe.

Eventually, I stood. Washed my dish. Folded the towel. Brushed my teeth with recycled paste that tasted like mint and sadness. Then I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The hello kitty poster still there, seemingly not aging one bit. 

My pack was at the foot of my bed. Still dusty. Still heavy.

So was I.

Late night in the Reyes apartment was always a kind of ritual. Same creaks. Same routines. Same silences that stretched between rooms like threads under tension.

I lay in bed, still in my hoodie, blanket pulled halfway up to pretend I was sleeping. Not that anyone checked anymore.

The hallway light flicked off around 22:40. I heard the soft scuff of Mom's slippers as she made her usual rounds: bathroom, locks, the rattling cabinet she thought I didn't know had a pistol in it, locks again.

Then came the voice, low and clipped.

"Report from sector four came in late," Dad murmured. Paper shuffling. A chair scraping.

"They'll push it through tomorrow," Mom replied. She always spoke more quietly at night. Not gentle, just measured. Like words had weight.

"More than twenty untagged crates reported abandoned near the canal entrance. Might be smugglers again."

"They always say smugglers. You think it's that rogue patrol again?"

A pause. I could almost hear my father's jaw working.

"Could be. Or Fireflies. Or just another gang of wannabe traders thinking they can outsmart the system. Doesn't matter."

Another paper shuffle. I imagined him sitting in that stiff wooden chair, flipping through outdated supply logs and scribbled guard notes, while the shortwave radio buzzed behind him like a dying insect.

"She's been asking about our side routes again," he added.

"Elena?" Mom's tone didn't shift, but I could tell she knew exactly who he meant.

"She's good. But she's too curious."

"She's twelve. And bored. And smarter than most of her class."

"You were like that too."

"She's not me."

No names. But I didn't need them to know they were talking about one of the kids I saw around the admin blocks, the kind who watched guards instead of teachers. Who asked the wrong questions because they didn't yet know what counted as wrong, or did so on someone's orders. Cannot be sure nowadays.

Dad kept going. "Two workers reported hearing noises near the sub-access tunnels again."

"Again?" A sigh. "If it's another raccoon, I swear—"

"Raccoons don't shut reinforced doors behind them."

I stiffened.

"Well?" she asked. "You sending someone?"

"I'll file it. But it's probably nothing. Just... monitor it. If anything pings near our side of the zone, I want to know."

My pulse was ticking up now, just a hair.

They weren't talking about my entrance. Not directly. They were referencing the larger northern subsurface access tunnels. Still, it was close. Close enough to make me feel the walls tightening.

A short silence followed. Then Dad spoke again.

"Callum's been quiet lately."

"He's growing up."

"He's eleven."

"He's been eleven for a while now."

That got a low, almost reluctant chuckle out of him.

"He listens more than he talks," Mom said. "That's not a bad thing."

"It is if he's listening to the wrong people."

Another silence. This one longer. Then:

"You don't think he's—"

"No," she cut in. "Not our son. He's careful. If anything, too careful."

A pause. Then she added, softer, "He reminds me of you."

I rolled onto my side then, eyes wide open, staring at the blank wall across from my bed.

Careful.

Listening.

Too careful.

They had no idea just how deep that ran.

But their words stayed with me anyway. Like puzzle pieces I didn't quite know how to fit yet.

They trusted me.

They were also watching.

I didn't fall asleep so much as settle into it. Like dropping slowly into a pit padded with burlap sacks, each one filled with tomorrow's problems.

The warehouse. The system. Lia's growing suspicions and her unexpected appearance. Joe is probably sniffing around then as well, the perceptive bastard. My parents talking like the world was always one step from fire, which probably is.

And beneath it all… the dull hum in the back of my skull. The presence of something bigger. The thing that gave me missions and buffs and status screens, like I was some post-apocalyptic errand boy crossed with a half-broken god.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster. Forty-seven. Same as last night.

The glow of the streetlamp outside barely cut through the curtain, painting the wall in long, orange lines that looked too much like prison bars.

I turned over.

The warehouse — my warehouse — had cracks and creaks, and smelt like shit and looked like it, but it was quiet. It listened. It accepted my bullshit without asking for anything in return. Unlike the world above, full of half-truths and closed doors, it was mine.

Well… mostly mine. Rusty's corner was now his semi-permanent throne of dust, sweaty mats and crates, and I wasn't going to pretend like Lia didn't have a mental map of every turn I took. But still, the warehouse was control. The system was power. And I was learning how to wield both.

Slowly.

Clumsily.

But I was learning.

I tapped my fingers against the edge of the mattress, syncing them with the mental hum of the UI window that wasn't open but never really closed.

I had enough space now for a supply shelf. Maybe even a wall partition with scrap cloth. I'd need more lighting, more salvage, better crates to secure the medical finds. And warmth. Rusty was right — winter would come for us fast if we weren't ready. Eventually, more people.

Three zones. Rest. Storage. Work. That was the mission.

But it was also becoming something else. Something like… foundation.

My stomach twisted a little at the thought. Not fear — not exactly. Just… the weight of realization settling in.

This wasn't a side project anymore.

This was the start.

Outside, a siren wailed briefly in the distance. Gunshots? Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't even flinch anymore.

I closed my eyes. Let the dark take me. But just before sleep swallowed everything, I thought of one last thing.

The sealed red crate in the corner of the warehouse.

Still unopened.

Still waiting.

And deep in my gut, I had the feeling that whatever was inside wasn't just metal and wires.

It was a test.

And sooner or later, I was going to have to open it.