The lantern flickered low, casting long, gold-tinted shadows that stretched across the cracked concrete walls like ghosts learning how to breathe. I sat cross-legged near it, the heatless hush of the shelter curling around my shoulders like damp cloth, watching 3830 work.
She moved like a machine long since freed from the need to think.
Knife—checked.
Ammo—counted, weighed, set aside.
Folding stock—snapped into place with a quiet click.
Safety tested—once, twice.
Reset.
Her hands never trembled. Her expression never shifted. Not frantic. Not even cautious.
Just practiced.
Like this wasn't prep.
Like this was ritual.
Like she'd done it a hundred times before.
Because she had.
Camille crouched near a stack of canisters, each one worn smooth by time or weather or both. She pried the lid off one with a screwdriver fashioned from bone and twisted wire—just another tool in the language of survival.
