Meanwhile...
Back in Okutama town, silence filled the old condom factory like a funeral shroud. The scavengers sat scattered across the dim space, each gripping a weapon—some with blades,a few with guns—yet none spoke a word. Eyes were down, and mouths shut.
The only sound was the quiet sobbing of a grown man.
Akira sat hunched over on a crate, his face buried in his hands. The echo of his choked cries bounced off the concrete walls, mixing with the scent of lattex condoms and rust. His tears hit the ground one by one, as if each drop was too heavy to hold in anymore.
Elena… the only woman in their crew. Her body had been found dumped behind one of the buildings, torn apart like garbage. Naked. Her neck severed. Her clothes shredded like tissue. It didn't take a genius to piece together what had been done to her before the end. She was rated. Mercilessly. The image haunted them.
And then there was Gerald.
His right-hand man. His brother in arms.
Stabbed to death. Not once. Not twice. But so many times the body barely looked human. His throat was slit so deep the esophagus was hanging out. Akira had seen a lot in his time—but even in war zones, death hadn't looked this personal.
He held his chest like it might burst. Rage. Grief. Helplessness. It all mixed into something sharp and bitter in his throat.
And what made it all worse?
A kid did this.
A punk. A nobody. Just a brat with a blade.
Tony, Gerald's old mission partner, had combed through the CCTV footage. The cameras around their compound caught just enough to boil Akira's blood: the boy, Shin, creeping in from the shadows, ambushing Gerald, then dragging Elena away from their camera range, so they couldn't see exactly how she died. But they didn't need to. The aftermath was clear enough.
Akira's jaw tightened. He wasn't new to loss. Death was a familiar taste. He'd buried comrades before, back when he wore a uniform and carried a rifle for the United Nations. South Sudan. Juba. Peacekeeping, they called it. But nothing about getting ambushed by rebels and watching friends bleed out felt peaceful.
Now the same damn feeling was clawing at his insides again.
"…How the hell am I supposed to tell Morena about this…" he muttered, his voice barely audible as he stared at the floor.
Tony stepped forward, slinging his archer rifle across his shoulders. He was dressed in a black hoodie, shiny boots, and gray pants, his expression tight with restrained anger.
"If I may, sir…" he said, voice low but firm. "Let me be the one to avenge them."
His fists clenched, knuckles whitening at the memory of Gerald's lifeless body.
Akira looked up, red-eyed but steel-willed. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, stood, and stepped closer.
"You think you can find him? The boy?"
Tony nodded and saluted. "I've already printed his face from the CCTV footage. My guess is he fled with the rest of the other people to the Safe Zones. He's out there—and I'll find him."
Akira's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a growl. "Bring me his head."
Tony snapped a salute. "Yes, sir."
and without wasting a second, he set off to prepare.
He selected two men to accompany him. First, Ado—a compact, wiry man standing just over 5 feet, but strong as hell. Before the world fell apart, he was a martial artist, and he never let go of that discipline. Every day he trained, even now.
Then there was Lawrence. Not a fighter, but sharp—scary sharp. What he lacked in brawn he made up for with brains. He could read patterns like others read maps. A beach shirt hung loosely on his torso, and on his right arm was a tattoo meant to be a lion, but it looked more like a confused housecat—thanks to a drunken night and a bad tattoo artist.
Together, the three were ready.
"We're off, sir," Tony said, straightening up. "And we'll bring back that bastard's head."
Akira nodded, watching them make for the train station. But just as they reached the exit, he jogged after them, panting slightly, holding out a few packets of condoms.
"The sign of peace," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And don't forget—bring back some women too, boys."
The men smirked, accepting the packets with a knowing chuckle. Their leader never missed a chance to keep try to bring women into the party. It was sick, maybe. But this was survival. Morality died a long time ago.
With that, they were gone, heading for the train station.
Akira turned back toward the factory, dragging himself back in with heavy steps. His shoulders sagged. His mind was elsewhere.
"Time to make that call. Gerald, get some cof—"
He stopped.
Silence.
His head dropped.
Right.
Gerald was gone.
To be continued...