Clayton Carmine had somehow commandeered an entire crate of expired protein bars, and he was proudly hosting a “taste test” in the middle of the barracks floor.

“Alright, Alpha Squad, listen up!” he shouted, waving a bar that looked like it had survived Emergence Day. “Today we determine which of these is least likely to kill you.”

One rookie sniffed the air. “Why do they all smell like cardboard and regret?”

“Because that’s the scent of valor,” Carmine said solemnly, tearing one open with his teeth like it was a combat ration from hell. He chewed thoughtfully. “Hmm. Tastes like boot polish with a hint of betrayal. Not bad.”

The others stared at him.

He offered it out like a peace offering. “You gotta build stomach armor too, y’know.”

“No thanks,” said a sniper cleaning her rifle. “I like my organs intact.”

Unbothered, Carmine tossed another one to the floor with a loud thunk. It didn’t break. It dented the floor. “Ten points for structural integrity,” he muttered, scribbling something in a notebook labeled ‘Carmine’s Crunch Scale.’

He leaned back against a bunk, finally peeling off one boot with an exaggerated groan. “Man, feels good to be off my feet. Killed three Drones, one Wretch, and somehow a vending machine today. That thing ate my credits and taunted me.”

“You punched a vending machine?”

“Not punched,” he corrected, holding up a finger. “Tactically disassembled.”

Everyone laughed, including Carmine himself, who clutched his stomach and fell backward onto his mattress, boots halfway off, snack bar still in hand. “War’s hell,” he declared dramatically. “But at least I’m regular.”

The room buzzed with chuckles — until a metallic clang echoed from the ceiling. A faint rustling followed.

Carmine slowly sat up, smile fading. His voice dropped.

“…Tell me that was just a rat.”