The outpost was nothing like Ravi had imagined.
When the system announced "safe settlement," he pictured something impressive. Maybe a fortress with glowing walls, armored guards, or a grand plaza where survivors rallied under banners of hope. Something that at least pretended to be civilization.
Instead, he got… a bus stop with extra chairs.
A cracked asphalt lot surrounded by half-collapsed buildings, flickering blue walls hemming it in. Inside, tents made of scavenged cloth and broken furniture passed for shelters. Someone had set up a grill, belching more smoke than food. The whole place stank of charred meat and desperation.
System text appeared as he crossed the barrier:
[Safe Zone: Central Outpost – Level 2][PvP Disabled. Trade Allowed.][Time until next scenario: 3 hours, 48 minutes.]
Almost four hours. Enough time to rest. Or worry. Or both.
Ravi wandered through the makeshift market. One stall displayed "weapons"—a garden hoe, chair legs, and what looked like a bent golf club with duct tape around the handle. Another sold water in cracked plastic bottles, three times the price of bread. Someone even hawked "protective charms" scrawled on notebook paper with a marker.
He paused at the water station, splashing his face. The coolness helped clear his head, but not the gnawing sense that the whole world was hanging by threads too thin to trust.
Then he saw him.
Sitting under the shade of a half-collapsed billboard, quietly cleaning a bow.
The hood was down now. Dark hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Sharp features, lean and precise, like they'd been carved with intention. His hands moved steadily, restringing the bowstring with practiced ease.
Ravi recognized him instantly.The rooftop archer. The shadow that had saved him.
"Hey," Ravi called, walking over. "You've been following me."
The man looked up, one eyebrow lifting. His voice was calm, almost detached."And you've been leading me to monsters. I'd say we're even."
"…Touché."
Ravi dropped onto the broken bench opposite him without asking permission. "So what's your deal? You pop in, shoot from the shadows, then vanish. Trying to be mysterious? Or are you just bad at socializing?"
The man's lips quirked. "Maybe both."
Ravi studied him. Up close, there was something in the man's eyes—a weight. Not just skill, but the kind that came from surviving long enough to make it muscle memory. A quiet kind of danger.
"You're good with that bow," Ravi said. "Too good. That's not the kind of skill you pick up in a weekend archery camp."
The man didn't answer immediately. He tied off the string, movements clean, then met Ravi's gaze directly. His eyes were dark, steady, and far older than his face suggested.
"Some skills follow you through lifetimes," he said quietly.
Ravi blinked. "That's… either poetic or very creepy."
"Take it how you want."
The man rose smoothly, slinging the bow across his shoulder. His voice was calm, but carried a finality that suggested he was already done with the conversation."Name's Arjun Varma."
Something in the name tugged at Ravi's memory. Familiar. But he shoved the thought aside. "Ravi Sharma."
They shook hands briefly. The grip was firm, unhesitating.
"I'll be around," Arjun said, turning to leave.
"That's it?" Ravi called after him. "No alliance proposal? No 'let's survive together' speech?"
Arjun didn't look back. "If you live through the next few scenarios, we'll talk."
And then he was gone, vanishing into the noise of the market as easily as smoke in the wind.
Ravi stared after him for a long moment. Then sighed."…Why does every competent person I meet act like they're in an indie movie?"
He leaned back on the bench, pipe resting across his knees. Around him, the outpost buzzed with life: merchants shouting prices, players bickering, others praying in small circles. But Ravi's thoughts weren't on them.
They were on Arjun.The bow.The name.
And the sense that this man was more than just another survivor.
Much more.