They walked the dirt-covered paths in silence, the settlement's improvised roads crunching under Cole's boots and trembling under Golem's heavy, uneven steps. Rusted sheet-metal huts and patched-together shelters lined the alleyways, people peeking out just long enough to confirm it was Stillface and his monster before pulling their curtains shut.
Eventually they reached a metal door tucked away at the end of a narrow alley—Cole's temporary home. The thing was dented, half-rusted, and barely hanging on its hinges, but it was private. That was all he needed. Cole grabbed the handle, shoved it open, and stepped inside with a long exhale as the tension drained off his shoulders.
Behind him, Golem tried to follow.
The Aberrant ducked its massive head, grabbed the top of the doorframe—nearly crushing the concrete—and squeezed through the opening like a boulder trying to enter a mailbox. Once inside, it grabbed the door and slammed it shut with such force the entire shelter rattled.
"Goddammit, Golem!" Cole snapped, collapsing onto the torn couch with a grunt. "You're too loud!"
"...Sorry…" the creature rumbled, sounding genuinely ashamed.
Cole sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his balaclava. "It's fine, Golem. I know you don't mean to."
His eyes drifted to a magazine on the floor beside the couch—its cover showing a heavily airbrushed woman in skimpy clothing, the pages wrinkled from humidity. Cole stared at it for a moment. Then he looked up at the ten-foot Aberrant crouched in the corner, its mismatched rock eyes staring blankly at him like an oversized dog waiting for instructions.
Cole closed the magazine with the tip of his boot.
"No," he muttered. "I can't do that with him here."
Golem blinked once—slowly, loudly, gravel grinding inside its skull.
The shelter creaked again.
Cole slumped deeper into the couch.
This was his life now.
Cole took off his helmet and tossed it onto the floor with a dull thud. Then he pulled off the balaclava, peeling it away like old skin. He didn't bother removing the plate carrier—if anything happened, he wanted to be ready. Besides, taking it on and off was a pain in the ass. At this point, it felt like part of his body.
His face was pale. Almost sickly. Months without sunlight had drained the color out of him, leaving him the shade of old paper. He scratched at his scalp, greasy strands of dirt-filled hair clumping between his fingers. Dandruff drifted down onto his clothes and the couch like ash.
He squinted up at the ceiling and let himself sink into the torn cushions, finally laying back. The eyebags under his eyes were deep and bruised, the kind you only saw on people who forgot what sleep felt like. Scars crossed his cheeks in thin lines, some clotted, some half-healed, some fresh. Cuts ran along his jawline like someone had dragged a razor across him in the dark.
His lips were cracked and peeling. His skin was dry. And his eyes—dark grey, almost metallic—stared emptily ahead.
They hadn't always been that color.
Ever since the Hollow Virus spread across the world, his eyes had changed. Gone from brown to gunmetal. He assumed it was Fault energy. Or a side effect of whatever immunity he had. Or maybe he was changing into something else entirely.
He didn't know.
Nobody did.
Cole closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
This was the face of a man shaped by six months on the Hollow Roads. Not dead, not alive—just… worn down.
And still moving.
Cole knew he wouldn't be staying in this settlement much longer. Something in his gut told him that the place wouldn't last either. The longer he stayed, the more he saw how rotten it was beneath the surface. The people running things acted like tin-pot tyrants—loud when they needed to look strong, cruel when they thought no one was watching. The guards swaggered around with stolen authority, waving their rifles like they were badges of divinity. And in the shadows, when the alleys grew quiet and lanterns burned low, Cole saw women dragged into dark rooms by those same guards.
He shuddered at the thought, fingers curling against the fabric of the couch. He knew exactly what was happening. He knew what kind of hell they were living under. But it wasn't his problem. Not to him. He wasn't here to fix broken people or save towns that were already doomed. He didn't have the time, the energy, or the interest.
All he cared about was his goal.
Himself.
And now, strangely, Golem.
He didn't know when it happened, but the creature had become a constant presence he didn't mind. The Aberrant sat in the corner of the makeshift shelter, huge hands resting on its concrete knees, mismatched rock eyes blinking slowly in the dim light. Childlike. Loyal in the only way it understood. And for the first time since the world collapsed, Cole didn't feel completely alone. Golem didn't judge him, didn't talk too much, didn't demand anything. It was simply… there.
And having something there was more than he'd had in a long time.
Cole tore his eyes away from Golem and reached into his pocket, pulling out the beat-up notebook. The cover was bent, stained, and starting to peel at the edges. Half the pages were already filled with cramped handwriting, observations, crude maps, and the occasional blood smear. He flipped to the most recent page—the one he'd worked on earlier that day.
The ink was jagged, rushed, but legible enough. He skimmed the notes:
Idaho Falls
Pop: ~5k men / ~1k women
Rulers: Holdfast Committee
Primary members: Speck, CM, Bud
Guards: ~800 w/ rifles + mixed weapons
Land area: ~15 sq mi, walled perimeter
2 gates: North + South
7 watchtowers (snipers posted)
Below that, written harder than the rest—as if he pressed with enough force to nearly tear the page—was the next section:
Serv Group = Terrorist cell
~25% pop support (mostly women + some "white knights")
Leader: Pepper (female?)
Motives unknown