"What… what do you mean?"
Eller, who had been overwhelmed with sadness just moments before, felt a flicker of hope at Brian's words—but confusion still clouded his young face as he stammered the question.
Seeing the boy's expression, Brian's smile widened. "What's your name?"
"…I'm Eller." Without hesitation, Eller answered.
"Eller, huh?" Brian crouched down slowly, meeting the boy's eyes. "You know this black market well, don't you?"
Eller nodded instinctively. "I've lived here for two years. I know every corner, every hidden alley."
"Perfect. Then I'll give you a chance to save your mother."
Clearly pleased with the answer, Brian continued, "I need you to keep an eye on certain people in the black market. They might not show up often—but the moment they do, I need to know where they go, what they do, and what they say. Use any method you can."
He raised one finger. "Just once. If the information you bring me proves useful, I'll arrange for a doctor to treat your mother. And if it's especially valuable, I'll not only get her treated—I'll give you extra food, too."
"And," he added, "as long as you keep delivering reliable intel, I'll reward you with supplies based on how important the information is."
"…"
But instead of lighting up with joy, Eller lowered his head in silence.
He was young, but not naive. Two years in this chaotic black market had shown him every kind of cruelty. He understood instantly: this request wasn't simple. To earn a doctor for his mother, he'd have to spy—sneak, eavesdrop, risk everything. If caught, his fate would be grim. And even if he succeeded, there was no guarantee this stranger would keep his word. What recourse would a street kid like him have?
His mind churned. Clenching his small fists, he looked Brian straight in the eye and asked, "Why should I trust you?"
Brian chuckled. "Kid, I don't force anyone to work for me. It's your choice—take it or leave it. Think of it as… a gamble."
Eller hadn't expected that answer. He stood frozen for a long moment, then looked down again. "Can… can I think about it?"
"Of course. No problem."
Brian wasn't disappointed. He hadn't even planned this encounter—it had come to him on a whim. Ever since learning that Lucy's intelligence-gathering efforts were yielding little, he'd been frustrated. He didn't necessarily need to know the rebels' every move, but advance warning of their actions would let him prepare.
Coming to the black market today had only been about trading supplies for Chen Shi and Sarah. But when this boy stole his ration card—and he saw the kid vanish into the crowd—an idea sparked.
He didn't know about other zones, but he was certain the rebels frequented this black market. Yet he couldn't linger here himself; as an outsider, prolonged presence would draw suspicion. Hiring local thugs was out of the question—they might sell him out to the rebels out of fear or greed, alerting the very people he was trying to monitor and rendering all his carefully drawn sketches useless.
But Eller… Eller was perfect. He had family here, a sick mother to care for, intimate knowledge of the black market's layout, and the ultimate camouflage: childhood. Adults wouldn't pay a grubby kid any mind.
Yes, the job demanded extraordinary nerve and carried grave risk—but Brian wouldn't force him. This was purely a transaction of mutual interest.
Reaching out, Brian ruffled the boy's hair, then stood. From his pocket, he pulled a small notebook, tore out a page with a marked symbol, folded it neatly, and pressed it into Eller's hand.
"There's a metal-parts stall in the southeast corner of the market. If you decide to do this, give this to the owner. He'll know what to do. If you don't want in, just toss it away after I leave. But decide quickly—I'll expect your answer within three days. If I hear nothing by then, I'll assume you're not interested."
With that, Brian picked up his bundles of goods and walked away without another word.
Eller stood motionless, staring at the folded paper in his palm. After a long moment, he tucked it into his pocket and slipped back into the shack.
As Brian moved through the slum section of the black market, the large packages in his arms drew hungry, covetous stares. Some onlookers—seeing he was alone—began eyeing him with predatory intent.
Noticing their restless glances, Brian smirked coldly. In one fluid motion, he drew his knife and slashed the arms of a few bold fools who'd stepped too close. Blood sprayed; the crowd recoiled in fear.
Once he was certain no one would follow, he sheathed his blade and continued toward the exit.
Leaving the black market behind, Brian reentered Sector D and walked the familiar streets. For some reason, he felt as though he'd returned from another world.
At a warehouse district two blocks away, he stopped before six or seven dilapidated storage buildings and sighed softly before approaching a small, roughly fifteen-square-meter room attached to one of them.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Tracy! You in? It's me—Brian."
"Who is it?" a muffled female voice called from inside.
The door creaked open, revealing a woman in her late twenties. Dressed in a simple, slightly rumpled soldier's uniform, she had a lazy, relaxed air about her—and a pleasantly plump figure.
"Aaah~!" Tracy yawned widely, stretching her arms with theatrical exhaustion. She rubbed her eyes, blinked a few times, then recognized Brian. Her face lit up with genuine delight. She playfully punched his shoulder. "You little rascal! Haven't seen you in half a year. Every time I go looking for you, you're off on some mission. Mr. Big Shot, huh?"
Though her words sounded like casual teasing, there was a faint, unmistakable note of bitterness beneath them.
Brian understood why.
Five years ago, during the catastrophic incident that claimed countless civilian and military lives, Tracy—then a squad leader—had been made the scapegoat. Reprimanded by high command and stripped of her rank, she'd been demoted to a lowly patrol soldier.
Much like Norman, her blunt, justice-driven personality had made her a target for internal politics. Fortunately, she'd kept her head down—witnessing corruption but wisely choosing silence over reckless whistleblowing.
Eventually, unable to stomach the hypocrisy any longer, she'd requested reassignment to this remote parts-storage depot in Sector D. Her former commander, who'd long found her "unmanageable," happily approved the transfer.
In truth, the "parts warehouse" held only obsolete but marginally useful structural components—emergency reserves that had never actually been used. The post carried no real authority; even junior soldiers looked down on her. But it was quiet, undemanding work. She wouldn't starve—monthly ration cards kept her fed—and it was essentially a retirement post in all but name.
And ever since Brian had risen from search-team recruit to captain, he'd occasionally visit her, always bringing extra food and supplies. Life had become surprisingly comfortable.
With little physical activity and consistent meals, Tracy's figure had gradually softened—a rare luxury in the post-apocalyptic world. Whether she hadn't noticed… or simply pretended not to… was anyone's guess.
But idleness had begun to gnaw at her. Watching others go on missions stirred a deep, unspoken longing. Yet given her current standing, a return to active duty seemed impossible.
That was why, whenever she saw Brian—always busy, always moving—she couldn't help but let a little envy slip into her words. Beneath the teasing, she ached to do something meaningful again.