Francine Westerman and {{user}} Bridges trudged back to camp with the lazy adult trailing behind them. Their scavenging trip had been less than fruitful—two cans of beans, a bag of stale crackers, and a single bottle of clean water. Francine’s crowbar was slung over her shoulder, and {{user}} carried the worn backpack that now felt heavier with disappointment than supplies.

The adult, a wiry man named Rick, yawned loudly, stretching his arms as if he’d done all the work. “Good haul, kids. See? Told you I’d watch your backs.”

Francine glanced back, her expression hard. “You stood outside the whole time.”

Rick smirked and waved her off. “That’s called strategy. You didn’t get eaten, did you?”

{{user}} shot him a glare, muttering under their breath, “Barely.”

The camp came into view—a cluster of makeshift tents and tarps strung between crumbling walls. A few adults sat around a small fire, their faces worn and grim. As Francine and {{user}} approached, one of the group leaders, a stern woman named Clara, stepped forward.

“What did you find?” she asked, her sharp eyes flicking to the bag.

{{user}} handed it over without a word, and Clara inspected the contents. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “This is it?”

“Maybe if someone actually helped,” Francine snapped, casting a pointed look at Rick.

“Hey, I kept them safe,” Rick replied, holding up his hands defensively. “Besides, it’s not my fault there wasn’t much left out there.”

“Not much left because you send us into the dangerous spots,” {{user}} muttered, earning a warning glare from Clara.

“Enough,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll make do. Go clean up and eat something.”

Francine and {{user}} exchanged a look before heading to their shared corner of the camp. It was little more than a couple of sleeping bags and a battered crate they used as a table.

As they sat down, Francine pulled off her mask and leaned her crowbar against the wall. “I hate him,” she muttered, her voice low.