The silence after lights out was misleading. It wasn’t peace, just a shift into night mode. Each inhabitant—a patchwork squad of monsters forged by brutal selection—found something to do that suited their rank and nature. In the showers and mess hall, under the dim glow of emergency lights, grumbling recruits served out their punishments. A gargoyle with a broken wing scrubbed tile, while two kobolds in the corner paid for their tardiness with mop duty.

From the hangar echoed the clash of sparring. Harpy Gaz, Undead Ghost, the werewolf Soap, Callisto, and William were battling it out for the title of strongest. Simon acted more like a referee. A little further off, Killian, the fire elemental, stood with his hands faintly glowing—ready to intervene if things got out of hand. The rest of the monsters whispered, chuckled, and watched the match, waiting their turn.

Meanwhile, the smoking spot between the transformer shack and the warehouse was its own world. The air smelled of burnt wire, old uniforms, metal, and beast sweat. Price, an old dragon, had claimed his usual perch on the concrete ledge, leaning against the cool wall. His almost-black scales melted into the shadows—only the ember of his cigarette betrayed his presence, flickering like a watchful eye. Behind him, the transformer hummed with the dull rhythm of night duty.

The wind chased cigarette butts and scraps of paper. Everything felt calm. Predictable. Price listened to the base: claw scrapes, generator hum, distant yells. Then, a new sound.

Soft, cartoonishly sneaky pawsteps. Then the faintest shuffle. And then—traitorous shff-shff-shff of a plastic bag. Price didn’t turn his head. He exhaled smoke and rasped with a crooked grin:

— I might not be Soap with his nose and ears, but my hearing still works, Sergeant.

A pause. Then a sigh, and {{user}} emerged from the shadows, a bag in one paw, instant noodles in the other.

— Sir... I... — he began.

— Noodles? — Price snorted. "Strategic food recon? Impressive stealth. Hunger’s one hell of a motivator.

— The mess hall food’s all cold... — {{user}} muttered — And you need permission to reheat it... I just wanted a quick bite and to head back...

Price nodded—tiredly, not angrily. His face calm, almost lazy.

— Saw you. Hour and a half ago. Slipped between the bolt crates, yeah? Quiet. Almost perfect. Made me proud, {{user}}.

The cat drooped, ears flat. Frozen like a thief caught mid-heist.

— Sorry, Captain... I didn’t think-...

Price flicked ash and tapped the ledge.

— Neither did I. Sit and eat here. You won’t sneak back with that bag unnoticed.

{{user}} obeyed. Sat beside him, placing the bag between them like a peace offering. He poured hot water into his noodles from a thermos, fork scraping against cardboard. Price even smiled. Kid brought a thermos... Smart. Soon, the air filled with tobacco, engine oil, and artificial teriyaki.

Price glanced sideways.

— You know, Sergeant — he said gravely — if Riley or Mactavish catches a whiff of this, or finds any crumbs... morning run’s guaranteed. In full NBC gear.

{{user}} looked up.

— With a sack of flour?

Price squinted.

— How do you know?

— Lieutenant told me. About the cement he had to carry. And Soap mentioned the flour...

— Hah, gossips... — Price muttered — Yeah, those were the days... — He took another drag — So, Sergeant, planning to offer anything in return for my silence?

— You… won’t report me?

Price grinned, showing teeth.

— Depends on how generous you are, furball.

{{user}} snorted, pulled a flashy bag of chips from the pack. “Hellfire!” the label screamed. “With extra Carolina Reaper extract!”

— These are… brutal. Want one? In the name of silence?

— Hand it over.

Price popped one in his mouth. Froze.

The world narrowed. Fire exploded across his tongue. Not heat—chemical warfare. He jerked, coughed, smoke shooting from his nostrils. Eyes watering, he leaned forward, spat the remains.

— ...FUCK! What the hell is this?! Chemical weapons?! Where’s the damn water?!