Cole stared at the last line for a moment before shutting the notebook with a quiet thwap. The settlement looked stable from the outside—walls, food flow, labor distribution—but his notes painted the real picture:
A powder keg.
A tyrannical committee.
A rebel faction with a disturbingly large fanbase.
A civilian population split by fear, desperation, and misplaced hope.
And he was sitting right in the middle of it with a level-7 monster.
He tucked the notebook back into his pocket and let his head rest against the couch again, breathing out through cracked lips.
Whatever "Idaho Falls" wanted to pretend it was, this place wouldn't survive the year.
He knew that in his bones.
Cole had always wondered why people would rebel against the very place that fed them, sheltered them, and kept them alive. In his mind, that was all anyone should care about in a post-apocalyptic world. Food. Water. Walls. Safety. Everything else was a luxury. So when he heard whispers about the Serv Group stirring trouble inside Idaho Falls, he never understood the motive. What were they fighting for? Freedom? Morals? Pride?
To him, rebellion only guaranteed one thing:
The end of Idaho Falls.
And that wasn't his problem.
He didn't want to get mixed up in any of it. But fate, as always, was a bitch.
A loud, rhythmic knock echoed through the shelter.
Cole's eyes snapped to the door. He pulled his balaclava back over his face, slid on his dark shades, and reached under the couch. His hand wrapped around the cold metal of his AK. He racked the bolt, chambering a round, and aimed the barrel at the door.
"Who is it!" he barked.
A short silence followed before a low voice spoke through the metal.
"Stillface. It's CM. Open the door."
Cole's pulse tightened. He glanced at Golem, who had already lifted his massive head, mismatched stone eyes narrowing in instinctive readiness. Cole motioned with a small flick of his fingers.
Open it.
Golem lumbered toward the door, grabbed the handle between concrete fingers, and swung it open.
Six men stepped inside.
Five of them wore matte-black tactical gear—vests, helmets, gloves, rifles—that looked like something scavenged off a dead special forces team. Their masks were metal, molded into smooth, expressionless faces that caught the dim light like polished bone. They moved with silent discipline, the kind that only came from training… or obsession.
The sixth man was nothing like them.
Short, chubby, and overdressed, he pushed forward with the confidence of someone who had never once feared consequences. His coat was made of fine leather, covered completely in thick black fur that dragged near the floor as he walked. A tall, all-black hat sat on his head, casting a shadow over his round face. Shiny polished shoes clicked sharply against the concrete with each step.
He looked like an 1800s gambler who somehow survived the end of the world and brought all his wealth with him.
His presence didn't match the apocalypse.
But the danger in his eyes did.
"Put down your weapons," Cole ordered, even though he knew it was pointless.
"No, Stillface…" CM muttered, brushing a smear of dirt off his luxurious coat. "You will put your weapon down."
Cole hesitated for a long second. But the math wasn't in his favor. Five rifles. One narrow room. No cover. Even with Golem, they'd turn him into a red smear before the creature could swing an arm.
Reluctantly, Cole lowered the barrel of the AK until it pointed at the floor. He set his feet firmly on the ground and straightened up. With a small gesture of his hand, he signaled Golem.
Back.
The Aberrant lumbered away, crouching into the corner like an obedient beast—massive, patient, but coiled with tension.
"Good," CM said, his voice maddeningly calm. "You're cooperative. Makes this easier for both of us."
Cole watched the man carefully, his expression unreadable behind the balaclava and shades. CM clasped his furry coat with both hands and stepped further into the room.
"I'm asking to borrow you," CM continued. "And your… your Aberrant."
Cole let his eyes drift across the five masked soldiers, all of them aiming their weapons directly at him. Assault rifles. Laser sights. Trained stances.
"Well," he said, shrugging, "at least let me hear what for."
He rested the AK's butt on the floor and held it vertically between his legs, hands still on the grip but relaxed. "It's not like I got a lot of choice here, do I?"
CM's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"No, not really. But as a man of respect," he said, smoothing the fur on his coat as if this were a civilized conversation, "I like to make it formal. More of a transaction than indentured servitude."
CM clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly, his heavy coat dragging across the concrete like a dead animal.
"This job will pay well, no doubt about it," he said. "You will have permanent housing here. No more rotating shelters. And you'll receive… oh, let's say eight-hundred AA batteries."
Cole's head tilted at that. Eight hundred.
That was enough power to live comfortably for months. Maybe longer. Enough to barter for food, gear, even transport.
He looked down—not at the ground, but almost through it—counting the batteries he knew he had left in his stockpile.
Ten.
Enough to pay rent for maybe five more days before he'd be forced to scavenge, threaten someone, or leave the settlement entirely.
He exhaled quietly behind the mask.
He hated needing anything from these people.
"Yes. Yes," Cole muttered finally. "You'll pay well. But… what. Is. it."
Each word sharper than the last.
CM stopped pacing. Turned.
Smoothed his coat.
"You will kill Serv."
The words hung in the room like a loaded gun.
Golem shifted in the corner, a low grinding rumble rising from deep in its chest. The masked soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons.
Cole didn't flinch. Didn't react.
He just stared at CM behind dark shades, expression unreadable.
The Committee didn't want help.
They wanted a weapon.
And they were looking at him.