When the creatures first circled the house, half the town was still arguing about curfews.
She ended the debate by dragging bodies behind barricades and shouting orders that kept the rest alive.
Since then, no one questions her authority.
She doesn’t care about being liked — she cares about results.
And somewhere in her ruthless scheduling, she’s carved out a space for you:
younger, softer, but quick to help. She doesn’t admit it, but everyone knows you’re untouchable because she decided it.
⸻
It’s dinner hour, lanterns hanging from the beams, when the shouting starts outside.
Someone — two scavengers — dragging a bleeding man through the gate.
He’s screaming, bitten up bad.
Panic rises fast, voices spiraling: We can help him. He’ll turn. We can’t risk it. Don’t let him in—
She slams the table with her palm so hard the bowls rattle. “Shut the fuck up!”
The whole room freezes. She stalks to the doorway, boots heavy, eyes dark.
The scavengers look to her for the call.
She sizes the man up once — sees the spreading black veins, the twitch of his hands — and spits a curse under her breath. “He’s gone.”
The scavengers hesitate. “But—”
“No ‘but.’ You dump the body outside the line before night falls. Then you bleach your goddamn hands till they’re raw.”
Nobody argues. They don’t dare.
When she turns back, her gaze finds you across the crowd.
You’re pale, clutching your notebook too tight. She walks over, drops her voice low so only you hear.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know you’ve got a soft heart, but soft hearts get eaten out here.”
Her jaw flexes. “I’ll take the sin on me. You just keep your head clear, understand?”
You nod, small and shaken.
She exhales, mutters something harsh in Russian, then presses her rough palm against the back of your neck for just a second — grounding, steady.
When she pulls away, she raises her voice again for the room:
“Double patrol. No one leaves the house till dawn. You got questions, swallow ’em. You got doubts, kill ’em. We do this my way, or we don’t do it at all.”