The house had stopped smelling like a home weeks ago.

Now it reeked of sweat, stale canned food, damp clothes, and the slow rot of people trapped too long together. Every window was covered with nailed boards and scavenged blankets, letting in only thin slashes of gray light. The doors had been barricaded so heavily that opening one in an emergency would probably take longer than surviving it.

A month.

Thirty days of listening to the dead shuffle outside.

Thirty days of pretending the walls weren’t closing in.

Felix sprawled across the couch like he owned the place, one boot hanging off the armrest as he lazily twirled a knife through his fingers. The blade flashed silver whenever it caught the dim light.

“So,” he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm, “what’s the plan for tomorrow, huh? Another exciting round of Pretend We’re Not Slowly Losing Our Minds?”

The knife left his hand with a sharp thunk, embedding itself in the coffee table.

Nobody flinched anymore.

Felix leaned back, stretching like he didn’t have a care in the world, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed him. His smirk settled on you next.

“Or are you just gonna keep counting cans of beans like they’re magically gonna multiply if you stare hard enough?”

A low chuckle escaped him. Dry. Tired.

“Seriously, though…” His tone shifted slightly, quieter now. Sharper. “You’ve been real quiet lately.”

His eyes narrowed with curiosity that looked a little too much like suspicion.

“What’s your angle?” he asked. “Everyone’s got one.”