Crates, Covers, and the Cost of Trust

It had been nearly three weeks since first crowbar met the first crate.

And we were... maybe 2% into the pile.

I wish I was exaggerating. I did the math once, on a particularly soul-crushing day, and came up with a rough estimate of "too many goddamn crates" to handle with 1 old guy and 2 kids and no power tools.

Most of them were sealed tighter than a ration box at a FEDRA birthday party. Some took hours just to loosen. Others we just marked with a big "FUTURE HELL" scrawl and moved on.

We still cracked open a few, though. Tools. Bandages. A bag of water-damaged seed packets that Rusty swore he could salvage. A pair of gas masks that smelled like old gym socks and bleach. Not glamorous, but it was something.

We traded what we could through Lia's contacts, mostly small-time scavenger types who didn't ask questions. That was the deal: don't talk about where it came from, and we won't talk about how you're not supposed to be near the fence in the first place.

The smuggling front was evolving slowly. Lia had managed to scrape together a few actual trade codes, little phrases we could drop when asking around, like "canned peaches for Sunday stew" meaning medical gear or "brass bones" if you needed old tools. Stupid-sounding, but it worked. Gave people a way to pretend they weren't doing anything shady.

She even managed to convince one of the ration guards to look the other way, once, and for a price. That price was apparently a jar of pickled garlic that made Rusty gag from across the warehouse.

And trust… well, that was the trick, wasn't it?

Lia didn't ask questions about Rusty anymore. She didn't ask why he never left the warehouse or how he always knew how to fix things. But I could tell — in the way her eyes lingered on him, in how she checked her surroundings twice when she entered — that she was thinking about it.

She was trying to trust me. And I was doing my best to give her just enough truth to make that seem like a good idea.

She handled the outside.

I handled the inside.

And Rusty? He held everything together with rusted bolts, muttered profanity, and elbow grease.

I pulled up the system screen again one night, in a moment of quiet between inventory runs.

[SYSTEM STATUS]

Name: Callum ReyesAge: 11Level: 6EXP: 35 / 400Current Job: Civilian (Unranked)System Points: 3Scavenger Rank Credits: 2Summon Tokens: 0Condition: StableBuffs: Comfort Buff (Minor, 2 days remaining)Debuffs: None

Equipped: Reinforced Crowbar (Graded Fair), Duct-Tape-Repaired BackpackInventory: Water pouch, half pack of antiseptic wipes, two copper wires, old screwdriver, pocket mirror, hand-rolled bandage

Relationship Menu: UnlockedCrafting Tips Menu: UnlockedCrate Marking Tool: EnabledMulti-Zone Base Flagging: Active

Progress. Stupid, slow, agonizing progress. I did some small main missions and side missions but they only gave small buffs or EXP.

But we were moving forward.

And with Lia refining our trades, and Rusty organizing the tools into actual categories — "sharp shit," "hot shit," "electrocute shit", I was starting to think we could turn this into something more than just a dumpster with crates.

We were building something. Quietly. Carefully.

"Tell me again," Lia said, arms crossed and hair tied back in a messy bun that still somehow looked better than anything I could manage. "How the hell did you even find this place?"

We were in the far corner of the warehouse, away from Rusty's humming workbench and the crates marked "Do Not Touch Unless You Want A Surprise Amputation." She kept her voice low, like the walls might rat her out.

I didn't pause in sorting through a cracked supply locker filled with mostly air and regret. "Took a walk. Found a tunnel. Didn't die. Claimed it."

"Uh-huh."

"That's the story, and I'm sticking to it."

"You realize how that sounds, right?"

"I do. And yet here we are."

She gave me the look, the one where she tried to figure out if I was hiding something dangerous or just insane. I offered her a rusted pair of scissors with bent blades and a dead spider still stuck in the hinge. "Here. For your thoughts."

She grimaced and waved it off. "Look, I'm not trying to be difficult. But someone finds a secret tunnel under a dead zone, sets up shop in a building no one remembers, and now trades in mystery gear with zero questions asked?"

"That's the dream, yeah."

"I've had better dreams. Most of them involved food."

That part made me smile. "You helped build this, you know. The trade codes, the smuggling front, the pitch-perfect 'totally-not-suspicious' face."

"I did say I wanted to be useful," she said, rolling her eyes. "Didn't realize I was signing up for... this."

She gestured vaguely around the warehouse. At the crates. At the low-burning camp lantern. At Rusty, who was in the middle of trying to wire a broken fan into something that would either cool the room or melt our eyebrows off.

I kept my tone even. "I trust you."

Lia's expression twitched, just slightly. "And trust usually gets people killed."

"Only when it's misplaced."

She let the silence stretch a little. Then sighed. "I'm not walking away. You know that, right?"

"I do."

"But if this goes sideways—"

"Then we improvise. Like always. Or just kill the right person I suppose."

A beat passed. Then she leaned back against a crate and exhaled hard. "Fine. But next time we trade with someone and they ask where this stuff comes from, you do the talking."

"Deal, I will tell them that God brought it to me in a dream." I said, holding up a half-functional flashlight like it was a holy torch of diplomacy. "We'll lead with this."

She snorted. "God help us."

I smirked "Oh he will."

Rusty shouted from across the warehouse. "If it sparks, duck!"

There was a brief bzzt, followed by the sound of something sizzling. Then a cough. Then: "It's fine! I'm still alive!"

Lia didn't flinch. She just looked at me again, more tired than angry. "This whole thing is insane. Especially him"

"Insane," I said, "is where we do our best work."

And we got back to it.

Because crazy or not, this was ours.

And it was growing. One sarcastic deal and half-open crate at a time.

Bartering wasn't just trading anymore. It was math. Psychology. Theater. A game where the stakes were survival and the prizes were dented cans and half-rusted tools. And for once, I wasn't the only one playing.

We were seated at a makeshift "planning bench" four crates lashed together with cord and covered by what might've once been the back panel of a vending machine. Rusty had called it "The Strategy Table," then immediately went back to rewiring a lamp that looked like it wanted to explode more than illuminate. Lia and I, however, had stayed behind to sort the newest batch of potential trade goods.

Spread out between us was a pitiful dragon's hoard: a small spool of copper wire, an expired box of gauze pads, a bent fork, a faded but intact FEDRA-branded thermos, two screwdrivers with mismatched heads, and a pack of zip ties I was not happy about parting with.

"We're not exactly swimming in treasure here," I muttered, nudging the thermos with a pencil stub.

Lia didn't look up. She was flipping over the gauze box, checking the expiry date and texture of the packaging like a professional. "You'd be surprised what people will take if you offer it like it's worth something."

"Great. We'll just become con artists with good branding."

She raised an eyebrow, finally glancing at me. "It's not conning. It's framing. Presentation. We sell usefulness, not just items."

I leaned back on a crate, arms folded. "You sound like you've done this before."

"My aunt's stall isn't just for show," she said, adjusting her sleeves with that casual confidence she had. "We trade with everyone. Old security officers, scavs, runners, even Firefly sympathizers when we don't ask too many questions, pretty sure someone from a cannibal group from south Boston snuck in to trade for better "animal butchering tools". You start to pick up patterns."

"Like?"

She tapped the thermos. "This? You pitch it as insulated, makes boiled water last longer. Clean water's in short supply. That's worth something."

I tilted my head. "Even if it doesn't actually do that?"

"It might. Doesn't matter. What matters is what they believe it does."

There was a quiet pause as that sank in. Lia wasn't just helping. She was teaching. And she wasn't talking down to me. She was treating me like a partner.

It was a weird feeling, after years of her being cold to me and treating me just like another stupid customer who she ripped off apparently.

I picked up the wire spool, weighing it in my palm. "What about this?"

"Too small for serious electronics," she said immediately. "But say it's good for trap triggers, snare repairs, or radios. People love radios."

"Even if they don't work?"

"Especially then. Hope sells better than truth."

I smirked, setting the wire down. "You've got a future in propaganda."

"Not if I stay here," she said flatly.

That sobered things a little. Neither of us spoke for a moment. The warehouse creaked in the distance — old beams settling like they were tired of holding secrets.

I cleared my throat. "So what's the plan? We trickle this out? One item per trade run?"

"Not trickle," she said. "Drip. Controlled leaks. No patterns. Different locations. Use runners, barter stalls, safe contacts, make a front. Never take the same path twice."

"You've thought about this a lot."

She shrugged. "It's my job now, right? Plus… it's better than pretending things are normal."

That part? That hit harder than expected.

We went quiet again, both of us scanning the small pile like it might grow under scrutiny. It didn't.

Rusty wandered back into view, still carrying his Frankenstein's lamp creation and muttering something about voltage and God's judgment.

"Found an intact breaker box," he announced, holding up a rusted wire coil like it was a sacred relic. "Might blow out half my teeth, but we'll have light."

"Maybe try not to electrocute yourself," I offered helpfully.

"No promises."

Lia looked at me. "So what's our cover story?"

"For the warehouse?"

She nodded. "People are gonna ask where you got this stuff."

I chewed on my lip, thinking. "What if I say I inherited it? Not now but later, we make a figurehead who will run operations for a while and then I come in and 'save' them or I gave them a deal? That I promised to give them protection of FEDRA since I am a son of FEDRA officers?

"Maybe? Better than some tragic tale." she agreed. "People don't dig into tragedy."

"So what, make Rusty here." I pointed towards his general direction, where we definitely didn't hear static and a curse followed by "I am alive", a leader and then I give him protection and help in exchange for co-leadership?

"Sure?. At first act like you didn't really know the guy. That you stumbled on him and his team, reminds me we need more people. And that he just left you half the key. People believe luck and survival more than skill."

I gave a short laugh. "Which sucks. Because I've got skill coming out my ears."

"You've got sarcasm coming out your ears."

"I consider it a skill set."

She gave me a look but didn't argue. Instead, she picked up the bent fork, spun it once, and set it back down.

"You're serious about this," I said, watching her carefully.

"You brought me in," she said, voice low. "That means you trust me. So yeah. I'm serious."

It wasn't a grand moment. No fireworks. No dramatic pause.

But it felt like a shift. Something important.

Something dangerous.

By late afternoon, the warehouse smelled like a stew of old rust, sweat, and mild despair. The kind of air that told you even the mold had given up on spreading. I wiped the back of my neck with my sleeve, then gave the crowbar another half-hearted jab at a stubborn crate corner. The thing refused to budge, like it had personal beef with me.

I let out a breath and leaned back against a half-collapsed cabinet. My hands were raw. My arms ached. My will to live had filed a formal complaint.

Lia was kneeling across from me, her sleeves rolled up, sorting through a shallow metal box of salvaged junk like it was a jewelry case. Her expression was tight, focused — but not relaxed. Something was off.

"You're quiet," I said.

She didn't look up. "You're worse."

"Not a competition, but sure. I'd win anyway."

That earned me a flick of her eyes. She picked up a pair of wire cutters, rusted nearly in half. "You're hiding something."

I sighed, dragging the crowbar along the floor as I sat down. "That's a loaded accusation. You wanna be more specific or just throw it at the wall like FEDRA's food budget?"

"You always bring back weird stuff. Not junk — weird. Things most people wouldn't find, or know where to get. Then there's Rusty. He's not from here, and he's definitely not just some guy."

She held up a half-disassembled radio as if to punctuate the point. "And then there's this place. You found a sealed warehouse no one else knows about, underneath half a block of collapsed infrastructure, and it just happens to be stocked like a forgotten mall?"

I didn't answer right away. Not because I didn't have a lie ready — I always had lies ready — but because she wasn't asking like someone trying to catch me. She was asking like someone trying to figure out if she should stay.

I rubbed my face. "I'm not hiding anything that'll get you killed."

"That's not what I asked."

"You didn't ask anything."

She gave me a long, unreadable look. Then: "Fine. I'll rephrase. What the hell is really going on, Cal?"

I let the silence stretch.

The truth, of course, was that I had a magical, terrifying system UI in my head that let me summon semi-sentient people and gear like some apocalyptic vending machine. The lie had to be just enough of a reflection to hold weight.

"I found this place by accident," I said, slowly. "Almost bled out from my leg doing it. Rusty was already here. Swear to god, I thought he was a squatter at first. He thinks I saved his life, but honestly, it's more like... we're just surviving near each other."

She watched me like she was trying to decide whether to throw something at my head or not.

"And the crates?" she said.

"Old military stockpile maybe. Or FEDRA. Or some private doomsday prepper with too much time and not enough brains. I don't know. I'm just making the most of it."

"That's the part I believe," she muttered.

"I bring you in because I trust you," I said, more serious now. "Because you're smart. Because you can help. But if it ever gets too weird, you can walk away. No hard feelings."

Then I shrugged. "Also you kind of followed me so had to bring you in."

Lia didn't answer for a long time. She just kept fiddling with the radio, hands steady, eyes sharp.

Finally: "You're still lying."

"Yeah," I said. "But not about the important parts."

Another silence.

Then she stood, brushed dust off her knees, and tossed the broken wire cutters into a box. "Next time you bring me something I can actually trade, I'll consider not kicking your ass."

"Deal."

She smirked. Just a little. But it was something.

We got back to work, side by side in the half-dark.

The day had already dragged me through the usual gauntlet of aching limbs, passive-aggressive banter, and crates that refused to open like they had dignity. So when I wandered back toward the rightmost wing of the warehouse, it wasn't with purpose. More like instinct. Or maybe the kind of stubborn curiosity that gets cats killed and eleven-year-olds maimed.

This side was quieter. Dustier. Colder, somehow. The air didn't move right. It felt... tense, like a held breath.

And there it was — the welded door.

Old. Thick. Reinforced. Some kind of emergency containment, maybe room where the more valuable stuff was in. It looked like it hadn't been opened in years. Big locking bars fused in place. Weld scars across every edge. Whoever shut it had meant for it to stay shut.

I stepped closer, the crowbar tapping against my leg like a nervous tic.

Every time I looked at the damn thing, it gave me the same feeling — like standing at the edge of a cliff and hearing a whisper from the bottom telling you to jump.

I let out a breath and leaned against it.

The metal was cold. Not "just resting in shade" cold — bone-deep, stale cold. Like the room behind it had never seen sun or fire or human warmth in years. Maybe longer.

Then I heard it.

Scratch.

Faint.

Scrape...

Closer.

I froze, breath caught halfway out.

And then — a clicking noise.

Soft. Deliberate.

Too slow to be mechanical. Too rhythmic to be random.

The kind of sound that makes your spine twitch because you've heard it before, even if you haven't.

I stumbled back from the door.

No mistaking it.

Clicker.

There was something in that room. Something alive. Or worse — not alive enough.

Rusty's voice echoed from across the warehouse before I could move. "You alright, kid?"

I cleared my throat. "Yeah. Door's still ugly."

He grunted and went back to whatever light-based disaster he was assembling.

Lia came into view a moment later, wiping her hands on a rag. "You look pale."

"New aesthetic," I muttered slowly.

She stared at me. Then glanced at the door.

"You hear something?" she asked.

I didn't answer right away. Just looked at the heavy welds again, the faint scratches near the bottom hinge, the warped air that hung around it like bad news.

"There's something in there," I said finally. "Might be infected. Might be worse."

Lia's face tensed. "We opening it?"

"Hell to the fuck no, you stupid or something? Too much old warehouse air going into your brain Lia. That thing stays shut. Forever. Welded, locked, bricked, I don't care. You see this door so much as crack open, you run away."

She nodded. "Got it."

I turned, spotted Rusty waving a wrench like he was a conductor of chaos. "Rusty!"

He looked up.

"You too. That door is off-limits. Don't touch it. Don't try to open it. Don't even look at it funny."

He stared at the door for a long second. "It whisper something to you?"

"It clicked."

"Ah," he smacked the wrench on his open palm, he said, as if that explained everything. "Copy that. Door is now cursed and officially ignored, may it rest in peace."

I nodded, still uneasy.

We went back to work. But I kept glancing at it. That slab of iron and silence. That locked tomb full of questions.

And in the back of my mind, I made a promise I didn't expect to keep:

I won't go near it again.

The warehouse had a habit of settling into silence when you least trusted it. After the door incident, the tension stuck to my skin like old sweat. But work didn't stop just because my nerves were fried.

Lia was kneeling near the bench setup we'd claimed as our pseudo-workstation with a lantern that flickered whenever you looked at it wrong, at least Rusty made it work. She was sorting through a collection of salvaged parts: screws, zip ties, bits of stripped wiring, and what might've once been a walkie-talkie if you squinted at it sideways.

"Anything useful?" I asked, crouching beside her.

"Jury's still out," she replied, not looking up. "Most of it's half-rusted or broken. But the casing on this," she held up a small metal box with knobs and dials, "might still conduct."

"Conduct what? Electricity or irony?"

She smirked. "Both, if I wire it right."

I let her work while I rifled through a crate we'd partially opened yesterday. Mostly old textile scraps and some ruined gloves — but under it all, I found a folded tarp. Waterproof, faded blue. Smelled like mildew and machine oil, could possibly be used to collect rain for the warehouse in the future.

Thats what it is now, incremental gains. Improving the space one scavenged item at a time.

Rusty was nearby, fiddling with an old fuse box he'd pried open. "If I die, it's because this thing was wired by a lunatic with a fork."

I called back, "Then I'll bury you with honor. Maybe a biscuit."

He grunted. "Make it two."

Lia tapped a pencil against the desk. "We're getting closer. Few more usable items, some proper containers, and we could pass this place off as a dump with personality."

"Great. That's what every business strives for."

She finally turned to me. "Speaking of, you thought more about what this operation actually is? Like, what are we telling people if word spreads? Who owns it? What's our cover?"

I hesitated, biting down a response that involved the phrase "well I have a magical inventory and I summon synthetic humans to do my bidding."

Instead I shrugged and said, "Eh, at the start someone will be the figurehead and when FEDRA goes snooping I will make a deal where I am the co-leader or something to get FEDRA off their backs for exclusive trade or something like this. Still workshopping it."

Lia raised a brow. "You just found the entrance to a massive underground storage site with semi-functional equipment who already has a bunch of scavs gave them a deal of a century, the best deal ever in history of mankind and they just said 'yeah, bet' and started working under you like that?"

I gave her a lopsided grin. "That's the beauty of the end of the world. Finders keepers, squatters become CEOs. And people with connections and resources take over smaller factions."

She stared at me a beat longer, then broke into a slow nod. "Alright. You've got the smug charisma to sell that. We'll need a few 'documents' though. Ration slips, old trade tags and notes. Something to fake a paper trail."

"I'll see what I can dig up," I said, mentally adding that to the thousand-item checklist the system refused to handle for me.

She started organizing the parts again, more focused now. "Also, we need to refine the trade routine. Too much product too fast looks suspicious. Too little and it's not worth the trip."

"Thought of that," I replied. "We drip it out. One useful item for every three junk ones. Mask the good with the bad."

She smiled faintly. "You've been thinking like a smuggler."

"I've been thinking like someone who doesn't want to get shot by FEDRA."

"Same difference."

A few moments passed in productive quiet. She clipped a wire, I unrolled the tarp and started plotting where to hang it. The warehouse — our warehouse — was slowly turning into more than just a hideout.

It was becoming plausible.

I didn't realize how much I needed that.

Later after looking at the tarp we realised it was just oil in solid matter so instead we used it to segregate the rest and work areas. The tarp went up with a little effort, a lot of dust, and several very unrepeatable curses. But by the time we stepped back and looked at the divider hanging between the makeshift "rest" area and the main work zone, I had to admit—it looked decent. Almost intentional.

Lia tilted her head, considering it like an art critic. "Looks like it came out of a garbage truck."

"Which is exactly where it came from" I said, wiping my hands on my hoodie.

"You're oddly good at making trash look deliberate."

"Some people call that art. I call it survival."

Rusty wandered over, chewing on something he absolutely hadn't asked permission to eat. "Y'know, for a pile of crates and tarp, this dump's starting to resemble a real op."

"Don't say that like it's an insult," I muttered, brushing grime off the edge of one crate. "We're just missing the customer service desk and the five-star amenities."

Lia leaned against the bench. "You think we could push a bigger trade soon?"

I glanced around. Our stash was modest. Mostly spare tools, some unbroken kitchen goods, and a few oddities Lia had flagged as "potentially useful to desperate idiots." Not much, but…

"Yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah, we could. Not all at once. But if we package it right? A mixed lot. A few good tools hidden among regular junk. Something that looks like a lucky salvage, not a planned delivery."

Lia grinned. "Add some fake wear and tear. A scratch here, some soot there…"

"Exactly. Sell the story with the scraps."

And that's when I felt it. The faint system pulse behind my eyes, like a thought blooming into awareness.

[NEW MISSION AVAILABLE – Big Moves, Big Profits]

Description: Organize and complete your first mid-scale trade using disguised high-value items. Prepare product, create cover, and complete the hand-off using a trusted intermediary or contact.Rewards: +200 EXP, +1 Charisma Buff (Temporary), +1 Summon Token

I blinked. That… was generous. Suspiciously so. But also, finally.

I didn't say anything aloud, of course. Lia had no idea about the system, and she never would. But it felt like it heard us scheming and finally decided to throw in some incentives.

I ran the numbers in my head. Two mid-tier tools, wrapped in rags. One canister of sealed iodine tablets. The old hand-crank flashlight Lia fixed. Throw in some bent nails and plastic scrap, and it'd look like a regular junk drop with "lucky" finds.

"Lia," I called. "I remember you talking about some contact by the wharf yard? The one who doesn't ask questions unless paid to or dangled from the side of a building?"

She rubbed her chin. "You mean Lenny?"

"No, the less drunk one."

"No the one who has more luck than brains"

"Oh. Robert."

"Right. Can you reach him?"

Lia just nodded. "He still owes me a favour from that radio battery job."

"Good. Tell him we've got a mixed crate and need it gone by the end of the week. Regular drop-off zone. Tell him to keep the good stuff subtle."

Lia nodded and crossed her arms. "So what's the angle?"

I looked at her. "We're not just scraping anymore. We're building momentum. We're either gonna become a known supply point, or at least the rumor of one. Either way, it buys us room."

She nodded slowly. "I'll prep the crate."

I walked toward the stash corner, that familiar internal ping still echoing faintly. A Summon Token. That meant someone new. Someone I could call when the time was right. But not yet.

For now, we were just three people and a pile of junk.

But with the right sell? That pile of junk was the start of something real.

[MISSION ACCEPTED: Big Moves, Big Profits]

I allowed myself a smile. Brief. Tight. Calculated.

We were getting closer.

Three Days Later

It took longer than expected, but we pulled it off.

The first big trade wasn't through some faceless smuggler or deep-tunnel black market broker, it was through Lia's aunt's husband. A wiry man named Hector who ran supply paperwork at one of the smaller ration depots. Technically, he wasn't supposed to have any outside ties. Practically, he had more ties than a noose vendor in a paranoid dictatorship.

Getting him to agree wasn't easy. The man had the face of someone who always expected a knife in the back—and had already rehearsed his eulogy just in case.

But Lia vouched for me.

More importantly, her aunt vouched for Robert.

Apparently, back before things got even worse, her aunt had been the kind of woman who could whisper someone into a job or shout them into a missing person report. Robert was someone she'd dealt with before. "Reliable, if greasy," she'd said, and that was about as glowing a recommendation as we were going to get in this apocalypse.

We didn't use any fancy disguise.

We just packaged the goods like garbage wrapped up in moldy tarp, layered with busted electronics, grease-stained rags, and a few cracked food tins for effect. The real haul was buried deep inside:

1 restored multitool with minimal rust

2 sealed water purification tablets

1 unopened sterile bandage kit

A spool of copper wire

And a solar-powered flashlight that still held a faint charge when shook

Hector made the drop himself through a courier blind spot near the old rail access beneath Zone 6. Lia drew him a full route map. I kept watch with Rusty from the north tunnel hatch, just in case.

He met Robert just past curfew, behind an abandoned vending machine outlet near the fence.

No questions asked. Just the nod, the bag, the trade.

Hector came back with two ration bundles, three full water slips, half a bottle of antiseptic, and a pouch of compressed tobacco—the real currency.

Lia counted it twice. I inventoried it once. Rusty gave it a sniff and declared it "good apocalypse value."

We split it.

Lia kept the antiseptic and one ration slip. Rusty took the tobacco and vanished to his corner muttering something about bribes and bartering leverage. I pocketed one of the water slips and the rest of the rations, there was more but Hector and Cara, Lias aunt took piece of it too for their part in it.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was focused. Settling. Real.

No smiles. No back-patting. Just understanding.

We'd made a move. A real one.

That night, I went home with the buzz of something bigger looming. Not danger. Not yet.

But consequence.

I crept back into the apartment and my room without waking my parents. Dumped my backpack on the chair. Stared at the cracked ceiling. My body was exhausted, but my brain? Still sprinting.

Then it came.

[MISSION COMPLETE: Big Moves, Big Profits]+200 EXP+1 Charisma Buff (Temporary)+1 Summon Token

[Level 6 Reached]Current EXP: 235 / 400Perks Unlocked: Summon Token increase summon per summon token.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Closed the screen. Let the dark wrap around me like a weighted blanket.