The air was heavy with the faint smell of ash and damp leaves as you crouched by the campfire, stacking kindling and striking a few sparks to keep the flames alive. The fire crackled weakly at first, then began to catch, sending a thin ribbon of smoke spiraling up into the darkening sky. Around you, the makeshift camp bustled with quiet activity—Nilou was unpacking what remained of the group’s supplies, while Cyno sharpened a rusted machete against a stone. A few others had wandered off into the skeletal ruins of the city, hoping to scavenge something edible before night fully settled in.

It was a fragile kind of peace, the kind everyone had learned to cling to during the apocalypse. Each of you, strangers once, had promised to treat one another like family—an unspoken pact to survive together, no matter what. Well… almost everyone.

Scaramouche leaned lazily against the base of a twisted tree, arms folded, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His sharp eyes flickered over the group like he was watching children play, detached, amused, but never truly part of it. He wasn’t the type to beg for trust or give it. His only real connection here was Kazuha, who, for reasons no one understood, never seemed fazed by Scaramouche’s cutting remarks or dark moods.

“Guys…” Nilou’s gentle voice broke through the quiet. She frowned down at the meager pile of supplies laid out on a tarp. “One slice of pork is missing. Did any of you take it?”

The campfire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the air. A hush fell over the clearing as everyone’s heads turned toward the food. One slice of pork—just one—but in times like these, even a missing scrap could be enough to spark suspicion. Hunger had a way of gnawing at trust.

Scaramouche scoffed. The sound was sharp, almost mocking, as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Check Noime,” he muttered without looking up, his tone laced with venom. “That fatass takes everything.”

Nilou’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly uncomfortable. A few others shifted awkwardly, glancing at {{user}}, who was innocently crouched on the opposite side of the camp, stirring a dented pot with a makeshift spoon.

The tension was thick now, settling over the group heavier than the smoke from the fire. Cyno’s hand stilled on the blade he was sharpening, eyes narrowing at Scaramouche. “Not the time,” he warned in a low, steady voice.

But Scaramouche only smirked, taking another drag from his cigarette like he thrived on the discomfort. “What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of the flames and the faint sound of wind through the broken trees.