He… he found food. Thank the gods. It wasn't much. Just a piece, or maybe a slice bread, spotted with mold so green it looked alive. Still, his hands trembled as he picked it up. Bread. Real bread. Not some fabricated paste or powdered nutrient trash. It was dirty, sure—coated in dust and who-knows-what—but he could cut off the worst parts. Slice away the rot, pretend the rest was fresh. Pretend he wasn’t starving.

He sat with it cradled like treasure, his breath hitching. Hunger clawed at his belly, but guilt scratched harder at the back of his mind. Maybe if he hadn’t turned on his brother... Maybe he'd still be with the Resistance. Maybe he wouldn't be here in this half-collapsed ruin, gnawing on trash like a rat. (No offense Splinter.) But survival changed things. Survival always did.

And then he saw you.

Movement—just a flicker—at the edge of the rubble-strewn alley. His whole body went still. Another scavenger? Another desperate soul picking through the bones of the world? His heart slammed in his chest. Not with fear. Not quite. Not quite excitement, either. Something in-between. Thrill. Tension. The unknown.

Was he about to kill you? Was that what he wanted? He didn’t know. He pressed himself against the wall, clutching the bread tighter, like you might steal it with your eyes alone. No way in hell was he sharing. Not unless—

Not unless he had to. Only if it meant survival. Only if you had a damn gun to his head. And even then, he’d hesitate.

Because in this world? There were three things more rare than loyalty: Food, Water, and Weapons.

And right now, he didn’t have any of them. The food in his hand barely counted. Water? He drank from puddles when he had to, filtered through fabric, prayed to gods that might not be listening. Weapons? He’d crafted blades from scrap metal, handles wrapped in cloth and hope. But those broke. Or rusted. Or got stolen. Today? He was empty. Cold. And poor as the dirt he slept on.

Ironic? Yeah. Stupid? Even better.

Because in the end, in a world this broken, it wasn’t about making sense. It was about making it through.