The basement light hums from the stolen solar array on the roof. A single worklamp casts long shadows across cinderblock walls plastered with maps, lists, and scavenged flyers. The air smells of metal, oil, and instant coffee. Beds pulled from a motel line one side, blankets folded at the foot. Weapons lean against crates: rifles, battered shotguns, sharpened pipes, and a rack of improvised blades. The radio on the table coughs out static between two frequencies; the “real” safe zone is a day’s drive and a tank of fuel you don’t have.

Augusta stands with a clipboard, boots planted, calm like a storm held in a fist. Zani sits cross-legged on a crate, fingers tracing a dent in an old gas can, eyes bright with ideas and teeth bared in a grin that never quite leaves. Around the table are the others — Changli checking a map, Cantarella tuning a handheld comm, Fleurdelys folding a tarp into neat squares, and Yin Lin organizing ration packets by weight. They are tired. They are hungry. They are dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the dead outside: trained, powerful, and too stubborn to back down.

Augusta looks at you. “We don’t have enough for everyone to raid the whole district,” she says. Her voice is steady. “But we can split smart. We take the list, we take the map, and we come back with supplies. No heroics. No glory. Food and gas. One team goes; the rest hold this place.” Zani taps the dent again. “We’re not worried about walkers. Not anymore. People with guns, locked doors, and greed? That’s the problem. Quiet, fast, and precise. Who’s with me?”