I woke up to the smell of bleach, boiled linen, and whatever passed for sterile in a military dictatorship.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The walls were concrete, painted that weird shade of off-white that screams "we tried to look clean but ran out of budget." There were medical posters on the wall in faded ink, probably never updated since the outbreak. The one closest to me showed the symptoms of Stage 1 Infection like anyone needed reminding. Ugly buggers.
My leg felt... numb. Which was concerning. Then again, it also wasn't on fire anymore, so I was going to count that as progress, on upside at least I can still feel it so its still there.
And then I saw them.
My parents. Both of them.
Slumped in chairs beside my hospital bed. Asleep.
My dad was still in his uniform, arms crossed, chin tucked to his chest like he'd fallen asleep mid-watch. My mom had her glasses hanging off her shirt collar, her head tilted against the wall, mouth slightly open. A half-finished report sat on her lap, pen still clipped to the edge.
Neither of them looked relaxed. They looked like two people who'd run out of options, found a chair, and lost a battle with exhaustion.
"Huh. So they do care."
I didn't say it out loud, but the sarcasm didn't even come with its usual edge. Just quiet surprise.
My body ached, and the beeping of some monitor to my left was steady, low, and rhythmic — a dull reminder that I was still alive.
Which is when the real reminder arrived.
Ping.
It wasn't loud. Not external. But it wasn't a hallucination either.
The top-right corner of my vision flickered.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
Welcome, User. Synchronization complete. Loading interface…
...
Name: Callum ReyesAge: 11Current Job: Civilian (FEDRA Affiliated)Status: Recovering: (Minor Blood Loss, Muscle Trauma - Left Leg)Level: 1EXP: 0 / 100
I blinked hard. The screen followed my vision like a HUD overlay. Light blue, semi-transparent, smooth scrolling. Not overly flashy. Functional. Which was honestly more comforting than I expected. That son of a bitch didn't actually stood me up like a forgotten Tinder date! He was just slightly late. 11 years late to be exact.
Buffs: NoneDebuffs: [Minor Injury: -2 Agility], [Fatigue: -1 Strength]Equipment: Dirty Civilian Clothing (Torn), Damaged Backpack (0 slots available)Inventory: One (1) Blood-Soaked Rag
God-tier loadout. I was ready to take on a level 1 rat, maybe. If it had asthma.
Then the screen shifted again.
[MISSIONS TAB UNLOCKED]
New screen. New layout.
Daily Mission: Eat something (Reward: 5 EXP)
Recovery Milestone: Survive injury event (Completed)Reward: 1 Summon Credit + 10 EXP
Hidden Objective: ???
That last one blinked faintly, like it was waiting to laugh at me.
Another flick, and I found the next tab.
[SHOP MENU - LOCKED UNTIL LEVEL 2]Shop features unlock at Level 2. Purchase limited-use summons, small supplies, crafting tools, and upgrades.
[GACHA SYSTEM - LOCKED]Requires Summon Tickets. Earned only through completing challenges or hard side missions.
Of course there's gacha. Why wouldn't there be gacha.
Even in the apocalypse, I couldn't escape randomized loot pools. Somewhere out there, a cosmic intern was giggling as they loaded my life with SSR disappointment rates.
May RNGJessus be on my side. Amen.
I closed the shop menu with a mental twitch, and the screen faded to the corner of my vision again, minimized but still present like a permanent part of me now.
No tutorial. No friendly AI assistant. No "Hey, here's how not to suck."
Just a system that had been locked for eleven years, finally waking up now that I was bleeding enough to qualify as worthy.
I stared at the ceiling. Took it all in. Processed the pain, the numbness, the information overload.
And whispered, under my breath, "Took you long enough."
I didn't even get a full five minutes of peace before someone knocked.
Sharp. Intentional. The kind of knock that says, "I'm not leaving until we make uncomfortably long and unnecessary eye contact."
My mom stirred first. Glasses back on in a blink. My dad grunted something that might've been a curse or just a noise to re-establish dominance in the room.
The door creaked open. A uniform stepped in.
Black boots. Polished. Gloves. Standard FEDRA utility belt. Not medical staff.
The badge on his chest read "Agent K. Vasquez". Under it, a laminated ID with the classification QZ Internal Security. Aka: the guys who investigate things that make normal soldiers nervous, and make the guilty ones disappear.
"Callum Reyes," he said, tone flat enough to iron bedsheets on.
My parents were fully upright now. My mom stood. My dad stayed seated but alert.
"Yes, sir," I croaked. My voice still had that hospital dryness to it, like I'd gargled bleach and regret.
"You were found collapsed near Checkpoint 3. Bleeding badly. According to initial reports, you'd suffered significant blood loss before medical arrived."
He didn't say it like he was concerned. He said it like he was doing math in his head and didn't like the answers.
"I need a statement."
I nodded, tried to look appropriately traumatized. Which wasn't hard. I just dialled down the sarcasm for once.
"I was walking past the outer zone near the Spine. Got curious. Stupid, I know."
I shifted in the bed, trying not to wince too obviously.
"I went into this abandoned place near the old bakery, south-east alley. Saw that the window on the side had rotten off a bit, thought it'd be full of junk or supplies I could trade."
My mom's eyes narrowed. My dad gave me the briefest shake of the head. They didn't like me exploring. But they also didn't interrupt.
Vasquez didn't blink. Just waited.
"I slipped when trying to climb up to the window. A Sharp edge of a broken cabinet caught me on the way down. That's all. No one else was there."
He stared at me for a long time.
"You're sure you weren't attacked?"
"Positive."
"No one followed you?"
"No."
"You didn't see any Firefly graffiti? Unusual symbols?"
"No, sir. Just mold and a whole lot of old junk."
I was calm. Too calm. But I forced a wince here, a cough there. Made it look real. Made it look dumb. Nothing threatening. Nothing suspicious. Just another QZ kid poking around where he shouldn't have.
"You didn't see any infected?"
"No infected. Just garbage."
He nodded once. Pulled out a small device, tapped the screen a few times, probably logging me as a minor idiot with poor decision-making skills.
"You're lucky. Another inch deeper and you might've hit an artery."
"Yeah," I said, weak laugh. "Trust me, I've thought about that a lot."
He gave me a last look, one of those I don't trust you, but I don't have proof yet stares. Then turned to my parents.
"We'll keep a monitor on him for the next twenty-four hours. After that, he's released. If anything comes up, anything strange, report it immediately."
My mom nodded. My dad nodded. I nodded.
He left.
The door clicked shut.
I let out a long, careful exhale.
And whispered to myself,
"Still got it."
The system chimed softly again in the corner of my vision.
[MISSION COMPLETE: Misdirection]+10 EXP+1 System Point
I grinned, just a little.
Lying had never felt this rewarding.
My brief happiness was short lived,
The second the door clicked shut, the room dropped into that weird kind of quiet where you know someone's about to talk, but no one wants to be first.
My mom paced once, sharply, like she was trying to burn off the urge to interrogate me herself.
My dad sat back again, one leg crossed over the other, face unreadable. He was doing that thing where he tried to act like he wasn't staring at me, while still scanning my every movement.
So I broke the silence before they could.
"I'm fine."
It was a lie, obviously. My leg hurt, my ribs ached, and I still had dried blood under my fingernails. But it was the kind of lie they were used to hearing from me, and I was used to telling.
"You lost a lot of blood," my mom said without looking at me.
"You think you're invincible now?" my dad asked, still calm, still low.
"No," I said. "Just bored."
It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth.
Her jaw tensed. His expression didn't change, but I could see the twitch in his fingers.
"I didn't mean—"
"You've been told to stay in designated zones," my mom said sharply. "Twice. And I know you've ignored it more than that."
"I wasn't looking for trouble," I said, trying to sound sincere and not like I'd been poking around in what was basically a forbidden treasure vault buried under the QZ. "Just thought maybe I could find something useful."
"You're not a soldier," my dad said. "You don't have training. You don't have backup."
I huffed, "Yeah, I noticed."
Another twitch. Another warning glare.
I shifted again, wincing more this time. The pain was real, and conveniently useful.
"Look," I said. "I'm not trying to get myself killed. I just thought... if I brought something back, it might matter."
Neither of them said anything to that.
For a second, I thought maybe they were going to drop it. Let me off with a warning and one of those parental sighs that carries more disappointment than words ever could.
But then my mom leaned in, eyes sharp behind her glasses.
"If I find out you're lying," she said softly, "about anything... I will find out where you've been. You know that, right?"
I nodded. Slowly. "Yeah."
"Good," she said, straightening. "Then maybe you'll think twice next time."
My dad stood up. His joints cracked as he did, more tired than angry now.
"Rest. Doctor said you're here for observation. You'll be released in the morning if there's no fever."
He didn't wait for a response. He just moved to the corner, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. A second later, my mom followed — glancing at me one last time like she wanted to say something else but didn't.
The door shut behind them.
And then it was just me again.
Well, me and the glowing little menu window floating in my vision.
The morning of my discharge came with all the grace of a broken vending machine.
No ceremony. No extra checks. Just a nurse with a clipboard who barely looked up when she said, "Vitals are stable. You're cleared. Try not to tear anything open again."
Touching.
They handed me a week's worth of antibiotics, and a list of instructions so outdated I'm pretty sure it included "avoid leeches."
The moment we got home, my mom told me to stay off the leg and get rest. My dad told me not to be stupid.
Classic Reyes household care package.
To their credit, they didn't hover. My mom had shift rotations. My dad was being moved between admin and checkpoint review. That meant for the first time in forever, I had the apartment mostly to myself during the day.
And that?
That was golden.
The second the locks clicked shut and their boots faded down the stairwell, I limped to my room, threw myself on the bed, and pulled up the system menu with a thought.
Ping.
That sound was rapidly becoming my new favorite thing. Like a tiny digital dopamine hit.
[STATUS SCREEN]
Name: Callum ReyesAge: 11Profession: Civilian (FEDRA-Affiliated)Health: 72%Status Effects: [Recovering – Minor Bleeding (Healing)] [Fatigue]Level: 1EXP: 10 / 100Inventory: 3 (2 Used)Equipment: Damaged Hoodie (DEF +0), Muddy Pants (AGI -1), Patched Backpack (Inventory +1)
[POINTS: 1][System Credits: 1][Summon Tokens: 0]
Busted gear, a trauma badge, and enough inventory space to hold a single peanut and a dream. Beautiful.
I opened the Missions tab.
[DAILY MISSION – Eat Something]
Reward: 5 EXPProgress: 0/1
Fine. I limped to the kitchen, opened a ration can, chewed through something that claimed to be chicken, and mentally checked the box.
Ping.[+5 EXP]
If I had to grind like a starving raccoon to level up, I'd do it. I'd seen worse drop systems in mobile games.
Next came the Summon menu — which was still partially greyed out except for the tiniest glimmering icon labelled:
[Summon Credit: 1 Available]Tier: Beggar– Level 1-2 Only
I hovered on it. Just stared.
I could press it. I wanted to press it. But I didn't. Not yet.
Summoning someone into my life even a level 1 beggar wasn't a joke. I didn't even have supplies to feed myself half the time. What was I gonna do, hand them a moldy can of beans and hope for the best?
No. I needed gear. Tools. Space. A plan. And maybe a better backpack that didn't smell like old socks and broken dreams.
I shut the system menu. Let it idle in the back of my vision again like a lazy pop-up ad.
Then I laid back, arms folded behind my head, staring at the cracked ceiling above me.
I finally had space to breathe. And something to build with.
It was small. Quiet. But in a world like this?
That was more power than most people ever got.
And I was just getting started.
Three days later and I was walking again.
Well, not walking. Hobbling with attitude.
My leg still throbbed like a mothefucker, it was holding a grudge because I slipped and slashed it, but I'd limping and replaced it with what I like to call the "I'm totally fine, shut up" shuffle. Everyone in the QZ has one eventually.
The doctor said to rest a full week.
So naturally, I was out on the street by day four.
Had to check in with the school admin anyway. And more importantly, I had to let a couple people know I was still alive.
First stop was the old corner by the rusted-out checkpoint where the fence buzzed faintly and the air always smelled like scorched plastic and leftover fear. That's where I usually found Old Joe.
Sure enough, there he was. Wrapped in three coats even though it was warm out, sitting cross-legged on an overturned crate like some apocalyptic Buddha.
"Thought you died," he said the second he saw me.
"Nope," I said. "Just upgraded to version 2.0."
He nodded like that made sense. "Didn't think you'd die. Too ugly for heaven."
"Thanks, Joe. Warms the heart."
He pulled something from his sleeve, a melted candy bar, maybe two decades old. Held it out like it was a sacred offering.
"Found this in the drain near the southeast pipe. Might be chocolate. Might be soap."
I took it. Pocketed it. Didn't ask questions.
Joe never asked where I went or what I saw. He just told stories about things that maybe happened and maps that maybe weren't real. But in a weird way, he noticed things others didn't. Like me bleeding out in the street a few days ago.
"You ever disappear again, I'm takin' your bag."
"You can try," I said, and bumped his shoulder gently as I passed.
Next stop: Lia.
Her aunt's ration stall was tucked between a butcher's shack and a fence-bound hydro crate that hummed like an overworked fridge. The tarp overhead was still patched with zip ties and shoelaces, and Lia was where she always was seated, sorting cans, looking like she'd rather be dead.
She glanced up as I limped closer.
Then back down. No hello. No wave.
"Thought you'd bled out," she said flatly.
"Missed me, huh?"
"No."
"That's fair."
She finished arranging the cans. Didn't look at me again. "You gonna tell me what really happened?"
"Nope."
She didn't press. Didn't smirk either.
Lia wasn't like most kids in the QZ. She didn't joke, didn't exaggerate. But she remembered everything and noticed more. And if she didn't say anything now, it just meant she was waiting until she had a better opening.
I grabbed a couple ration bars from the discount pile and paid full price.
Her way of saying "don't be an idiot again" was letting me walk off with a nod.
I made it to the admin sector by noon. Signed a couple forms with a shaky hand. Some low-level FEDRA grunt made a joke about how the streets missed my sarcasm. I told him the streets could keep it.
Then it was back to school.
Back to work.
Back to pretending I was just another half-functioning cog in the QZ machine.
Paper-stamping. Food-stacking. Quiet nods. Careful movements.
I played the part.
All while my system sat in the back of my mind like a coiled spring.
Waiting.
Because I wasn't done yet.
Saturday. The one holy day of the week. No school. No shifts. No pretending I didn't hear my mom call my name three times before giving up and slamming the door.
Most kids my age used their day off to sleep in, fight over ration cards, or kick dented cans into storm drains.
I, however, limped to a trash pile behind an abandoned sex shop and disappeared underground.
Just a totally normal eleven-year-old thing to do.
The sewer hatch opened easier this time — muscle memory, adrenaline, and a healthy dose of spite.
The descent felt... quieter than usual. Maybe I was just hyper aware now. Every groan of the rusted pipework sounded like a threat. Every loose pebble underfoot like a landmine.
But the warehouse?
Still there.
Still untouched.
Still mine, well along with my bloody trail I left, the bloody handprint on the metal door is a cool touch though.
I took a breath. Sat down on a crate that didn't look like it wanted to kill me, and called up the menu.
Ping.
[MISSIONS AVAILABLE]
Main Mission: "Scavenge Run 001"Objective: Open and inventory 3 sealed containers, and sell contents for profit.Reward: +75 EXP, +2 System Points, +1 Scavenger Rank Credit
Minor Side Mission: "Upgrade Prep"Objective: Obtain or create improved gear (1/3 pieces)Reward: +35 EXP, unlock Crafting Tips menu
Alright. Now we're talking.
Finally. Something with structure. Something with progression. Something that felt like I wasn't just being punted in the teeth by the universe for fun.
I dragged one of the smaller crates toward the light-slanted part of the warehouse and wiped off the surface. No markings. No lock. Just old hinges and the quiet judgment of abandoned history.
Took me five minutes to pry it open using a rusty pry bar and all the upper body strength of a malnourished possum.
Inside?
Clothes. Mostly junk. Torn shirts, stiff pants, something that might've once been underwear and now qualified as a biohazard. But a couple pieces looked wearable. Salvageable.
One down.
Second crate was harder. Metal-reinforced, probably pre-outbreak FEDRA issued. I found a crowbar wedged between a wall panel and a soggy crate and gave it a go.
After ten minutes of grunting and a lot of swearing under my breath, I popped it.
This one was better. Ration packs. Water pouches. A sealed medkit with half the stuff missing but still three gauze rolls and disinfectant intact.
Ping.[2/3 Containers Opened]
I didn't realize I was grinning until I caught myself in a piece of warped reflective metal on the wall.
It wasn't a smile of happiness. It was hunger.
Control. Progress. Power.
It was the first time in years I'd felt like I was doing something that wasn't just survival.
I stood, wiped my hands on my already-filthy pants, and moved toward the next crate.
Just one more to go.
One more step on the ladder.
And then the real game begins.
Third crate was a pain in the ass.
Which, of course, meant it had to be the one holding something worthwhile.
It looked like a standard wooden container at first — cracked sides, rusted corner braces, dust thick enough to write a novel in. But the top had been reinforced with metal bands and bolted shut from the inside. Someone had really not wanted this one opened.
So I did the natural thing.
I called it names under my breath for 45 minutes while trying to wedge a pipe under the lid.
Eventually I found a rusted flathead screwdriver in a nearby toolbox, still intact and only slightly bent. I used that to loosen the bolts just enough to jam the crowbar back in. My arm strength was still garbage, and my leg felt like it might tear open again if I sneezed wrong, but after enough effort and enough swearing to get me banned from three churches, the crate finally creaked open.
Inside?
Tools. Actual tools.
A couple hammers. Pliers. A wrench that looked like it belonged to someone who really hated bolts. Even a handheld hacksaw with a replaceable blade still wrapped in plastic. Old, sure — but tools meant options. Options meant upgrades.
As a robot once said "Upgrades people, upgrades."
Ping.[3/3 Containers Opened][Main Mission Completed: Scavenge Run 001]+10 EXP
Huh, so I do get EXP from doing small tasks that it gives me that are related to the main one, sort of like extra exp and incentive. The rush of points almost made me forget I still hadn't eaten anything besides a stale ration bar.
Almost.
I sat back against the wall, breathing hard, tools laid out in front of me like I'd just looted a post-apocalyptic hardware store clearance rack.
Then I remembered the side mission.
Ping.[Minor Side Mission: Upgrade Prep – Progress Updated]
Improved Gear Acquired: 1/3
Perfect.
Now all I needed was two more items, something wearable, something protective, something not made of literal duct tape and teenage desperation.
I started scoping the warehouse with new eyes. Not just looking for loot. Looking for potential.
The welded metal door on the other side is off the table, though there is a smaller room within this bigger one, a closet if you would, with half off its hinges off, it I went inside the room I hadn't checked last time. Dust was thicker here. A few lockers lined one wall, dented but unopened. I cracked two of them with the crowbar. One had a faded backpack strap hanging off a coat hook. The other held what I guessed was a rain poncho or tarp, folded and brittle but intact.
Not exactly tactical gear, but it beat running around in the apocalypse wearing a muddy hoodie with holes in it.
I added them to the pile.
Everything else could wait.
I was tired. Hungry. Sore. But more than that, I was alive.
I didn't go straight home.
I limped to Lia's stall instead, the makeshift one squashed between the meat shack and the humming hydro crate like some apocalyptic sandwich. She was there, of course. Sitting like she'd been carved from annoyance and ambient distrust, half-occupied wiping dust off cans no one was gonna buy.
She didn't look up when I arrived.
"You look worse," she muttered.
"Thanks. You look radiant," I replied, setting my haul down on the crate in front of her like I was about to pitch her a timeshare in radioactive Florida.
Three items. That was all I was willing to risk right now.
A small tool kit, one unopened ration pack, and what looked like a sealed water filtration cap still in its original box. Nothing game-changing, but enough to bait a conversation.
She glanced at the items, then at me. "Where'd you find this?"
"Empty rowhouse on the south-west edge. Window was busted in. Looked untouched."
She squinted. "You were on the southwest side?"
I shrugged. "Heard the Fireflies were spreading rumors over there, figured I'd get there before the scavengers did."
It was vague. Not entirely unbelievable. She didn't call me out. Just picked up the filter cap and turned it over.
"Could sell this. Maybe. If it works."
"Which it totally does," I said, the way liars always say things that totally do.
She moved onto the ration. Sniffed the seal. Frowned. "Barely expired. Could offload this at the evening market."
Tool kit? She just nodded. "Someone will want it. These are good enough for trades."
Perfect. That's all I needed.
"Could you do me a favor?" I asked.
She finally met my eyes. Her stare could have cracked glass.
"I don't do favors."
"Just an estimate. What's the total worth of this stuff if you were pricing it out?"
She tapped her fingers on the table. "Filter, maybe two minor credits. Ration's a credit or trade for something small. Tool kit, probably 8 or 10 maybe more depending on condition and whats inside it."
I whistled low.
"If you're lucky," she said. "And not an idiot."
I nodded. That was enough. A ballpark. A reference.
[MISSION OBJECTIVE COMPLETE]
[Scavenge Run 001: Sell/Value Confirmed]
+75 EXP
+2 System Points
+1 Scavenger Rank Credit
Ping.
The rush hit like a back-alley stimulant. Not even joking. My vision swam a little from the dopamine dump. This system was more addictive than caffeine-laced morphine.
Seven items. A few lies. One risky dungeon.
And now I had currency. Rank. Actual experience.
I forced myself not to react. Not to grin. Not to fist-pump like some cracked-out RPG protagonist.
Lia tilted her head. "You good?"
"Yeah," I said, calm. Cool. Absolutely not high on magical point gain. "Just remembered something."
She didn't buy it. But she didn't press either.
I scooped the items back into my bag, no way I was actually selling them today, and gave her a mock salute.
"Appreciate it."
She muttered something about morons under her breath and waved me off.
But I left lighter. Taller.
Because for the first time since this broken world decided to punt me into a new body, I'd actually done something right.
Level Up Achieved.
Callum Reyes: Level 2
+1 Attribute Point
[Shop Menu Unlocked]
Oh yeah.
It was officially on.
As I was walking home, I took a slight detour.
I ducked behind the old boiler tank three alleys north of Lia's stall the one nobody used anymore because it smelled like a dead cat dipped in vinegar. Perfect place to take inventory without nosy eyes or government boots asking why an eleven-year-old was suddenly carrying enough gear to stock a middle-tier prepper bunker.
I laid everything out on the concrete.
One battered tool kit. Still mostly usable.
One sealed filtration cap. Not tested, but if Lia said it was good, it probably was.
A poncho that was either waterproof or just smelled strongly of plastic sadness.
And the crown jewel: the busted backpack I'd swapped out back at the warehouse. Bigger. Stronger. Less emotionally damaging than the last one. Probably wouldn't disintegrate if I looked at it wrong.
I opened the system menu with a thought. The screen slid into view, neat and crisp like always.
[INVENTORY UPDATED]
Sturdy Backpack (+3 Slots)
Makeshift Poncho (DEF +1 vs Rain, +0.5 Heat Resistance)
Tool Kit (Crafting Utility: Basic Repairs Enabled)
Sealed Water Filter (Trade Value: Medium)
Expired Ration (Consumable: 20% Hunger Recovery, Slight Nausea Risk)
Ping.
[Minor Side Mission Completed: Upgrade Prep]
+35 EXP
[Crafting Tips Menu Unlocked]
That one hit different.
The new menu slid open like a survivalist's dream. Pages of blueprint outlines, repair instructions, crafting modifiers, resource trees — simplified for my baby-level stats but still usable.
I clicked through it slowly. Absorbing.
Crafting Tip #001:
"Don't waste clean tools on rusted junk. Scrub, sharpen, salvage. Then build."
Simple. But useful.
Another tab blinked underneath: Common Upgrades Available.
Most of them were grayed out, requiring materials I didn't have yet. But a few were just barely within reach:
Wrap Reinforcement (Clothing Upgrade) – Requires: Fabric Scraps, Thread, Time.
Pipe Club (Weapon: Improvised) – Requires: Short pipe, cloth grip, tape or binding.
Modded Flashlight Grip – Requires: Flashlight, wire scrap, toolkit.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
I bundled up the gear carefully, placing what I could into the new backpack, ditching the old one behind the boiler without a second thought. It had seen me through my idiot scavenger phase. But now?
Now I was upgrading.
System menu minimized with a smooth flick, shrinking back to its subtle corner. Just there. Always present. Always ready.
The sun was lower now. Boston QZ's skyline burned orange through the grime-coated air. Wind whistled between the husks of buildings, and somewhere far off, I heard the distant clang of metal probably someone else's bad decision echoing through the ruins.
I didn't smile.
But I felt something close.
Not pride. Not confidence.
Something else.
Momentum.
I wasn't strong yet. I wasn't clever or trained or even remotely equipped to handle what was coming.
But I was moving.
Climbing.
Learning.
Building.
The sun was almost gone by the time I crept back toward the market line. Shadows were long and twitchy. The kind that made you keep one hand on your pocket and one on your paranoia.
I took the long way around. Doubled back once just to be sure. My new backpack was heavier than the old one, not that it took much. But even a few tools, folded tarp, and a sealed water filter felt like I was carrying contraband wrapped in neon signs.
Lia's stall was still open.
Her aunt was nowhere to be seen, probably busy arguing with the butcher about spoiled meat or ration bar expiration dates. Either way, the quiet was ideal.
Lia was crouched beside the crate, arms-deep in inventory. She didn't even glance up as I stepped close.
"Back already?" she muttered, dry. "Didn't expect to see you till next week."
I dropped the items gently onto the tarp near her feet. Two sealed ration bars (clean, not moldy). A half-used flashlight with working batteries. The water filter.
"I need a price check."
Now she looked up.
One brow raised. No visible emotion, but her eyes flicked over the stuff like she was already cataloguing weight, condition, and resale odds.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Abandoned flat," I said casually. "West block. Near the fence. Place had half its roof caved in. Nobody looted it."
A lie, obviously.
But it wasn't a big lie. Just a medium-sized one. The kind people told all the time when something valuable suddenly appeared and you didn't feel like giving someone else a cut.
Lia stared at me for another second before turning back to the items.
"The bars are real," she said. "Someone'll buy them. Not top tier, but decent quality."
She tapped the flashlight. "This works?"
"Tested it twice," I nodded. "Dim but steady."
"Sellable. Might get a full card if you're lucky. Filter's harder. No stamp. Could be pre-outbreak."
"It's sealed."
"Doesn't matter. No stamp means no guarantee. Someone'll still want it, just not for trade value. Probably private use."
She leaned back and crossed her arms.
"I can take them. Pass them to my aunt. She'll sell what she can, skim a cut, and give you back the rest in cards or supplies."
"How much we talking?"
"Three, maybe four standard ration cards. More if she upsells the filter to a cleaner."
Not great. But not bad either.
Especially for what was essentially junk I'd yanked from a forgotten sewer warehouse full of ghosts and mildew.
I nodded. "Fine. Do it."
Lia didn't say anything, just started bundling the items into a cloth pouch with practiced hands.
"Pickup in three days. Same spot."
"Got it."
I lingered a second too long. Not out of sentiment, just... watching her work.
She was efficient. Quiet. Focused.
We weren't friends. Not really. But she wasn't stupid. And she didn't ask questions she didn't need answered.
Useful traits in someone I might need more of soon.
I turned to leave.
"Reyes," she said behind me.
I paused.
"You start bringing in stuff like this more often," she added, not looking up, "people are gonna ask how. And where."
I didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
She already knew I wasn't going to tell her. Not yet.
But maybe one day.
If she stayed smart.
If I stayed alive.
The walk home was quiet. My limp was less dramatic now. I had a few cards coming in. A few tools tucked away. A system humming quietly in the corner of my mind.
And for the first time since waking up on a bloodstained street with a broken leg and a sarcastic god complex...
I felt like I had a plan.