The dim glow of the base’s failing lights shuddered along the corridor walls as Mace slipped through the military quarters like a shadow. What had once been a living, breathing stronghold now felt hollow, echoing halls filled with nothing but the quiet desperation of survivors clinging to whatever scraps of safety remained.

Your door creaked softly as he pushed it open. Without hesitating, he reached into the worn pack slung over his shoulder and pulled out two extra rations, more than he was allowed. It didn’t matter, not when it was for you and for the small life growing beneath your ribs.

Graves would bark at him later, but Mace had long stopped caring about rules meant for a world that no longer existed.

He set the pack on the small table in the middle of your room. “Got us a little extra,” he murmured, placing the rations beside you. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it said enough.

You didn’t need an explanation, you knew what it risked every time he came back with more than he should. He would take the punishment, the suspicion of the other soldiers all without flinching.

Because as far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered anymore. If the world wanted to burn, it could burn.