Cherreads

Chapter 5 - Limits and Loose Screws

I woke up with the distinct feeling that I was now living a double life. The kind of morning where you brush your teeth thinking about water rations and corpse disposal instead of homework and cafeteria punch.

The sun hadn't even properly cracked the sky, but the Boston QZ was already growling to life outside my window. Distant clangs, boots stomping somewhere below. The usual symphony of controlled panic.

I sat up slowly. Leg still sore, ribs still bruised. No limp this time though, and that was progress.

The moment my brain cleared enough to be dangerous, I flicked open the system window.

[SYSTEM STATUS]

Name: Callum ReyesAge: 11Level: 2Current Job: Civilian (Unranked)EXP: 15 / 100System Points: 2Scavenger Rank Credits: 1Summon Tokens: 0Condition: StableBuffs: NoneDebuffs: Minor Pain (Fading)Equipped: Makeshift Pipe (Graded Poor), Duct-Tape Reinforced BackpackInventory: Water pouch, stale ration biscuit, two zip ties, broken flashlight, half a mapRelationship Menu: UnlockedCrafting Tips Menu: Unlocked

No new missions overnight. No errors. No "you are now being watched by hostile entities" pop-ups. Bloody lovely.

I slid out of bed and started my morning checklist. Shoes. Layered hoodie. The reinforced backpack. Half-patched with duct tape, half-covered in regret. I added a crowbar this time, just in case.

Breakfast was a stale protein bar and a sip of lukewarm water. I chewed like it owed me money.

Out the door by six-forty. FEDRA patrols had mostly rotated out. The apartment hallway was empty. I passed by the Reyes family photo on the wall — faded, smiling strangers now. I didn't stop to look.

School was the usual brain-numbing series of controlled nothing.

Attendance. Civics. FEDRA history (abridged version). I half-listened while a sergeant-turned-teacher explained how loyalty was a pillar of community strength and how the Fireflies were manipulative fucking cowards.

I raised my hand to ask if that meant FEDRA wasn't manipulative, but the look I got was enough to drop it.

At "lunch," I traded a scrap of info with Lia, a whisper about a ration stall lady hoarding canned peaches, in exchange for a half-decent bandage roll.

"You're limping less," she said quietly.

"Maybe I found a miracle cure."

"Or maybe you're up to something."

I gave her a thin smile. "I'm always up to something."

Work came after school. Lifting boxes. Scrubbing floors. Watching guards bark orders like dogs that forgot they had owners once.

I kept my head low, my mouth shut, and my brain humming.

Because today wasn't about FEDRA, or school, or any of that surface-layer noise.

Today was about testing limits.

Once my shift was up, I slipped away. Cut through a side alley, then ducked into a pipe access zone near the old treatment building. The tunnel was cold and damp, the kind of cold that crawled under your skin and made itself a roommate.

I had supplies tucked under a tarp back there. Water, matches, a cracked multitool, a stale energy bar. My own little bug-out bag for the underground.

The warehouse wasn't far now. Just another fifteen minutes and I'd be back. 

By the time I made it down through the final tunnel shaft, the familiar scent of dust, rust, and old metal hit me like home-cooked trauma.

I pushed the warehouse door open slowly and carefully, slipping inside. The door closed behind me with that deep clunk. That one sound that said "nobody's following you down here." I still checked the shadows anyway. Trust issues are just good practice these days.

Rusty was already moving when I came in.

The guy had apparently made himself very at home, he'd cleared a rough path between the crates, moved some broken shelving to one side, and even stacked a few boxes into something that looked dangerously close to a chair.

"Welcome back," he said, wiping dust from his palms. "You look like hell."

"You should see the other guy," I muttered. "It's me."

He snorted. "Been poking through the light stuff while you were gone. Found a box with thirty-seven buttons, one can of expired peaches, and what might've been a prosthetic arm."

"Useful," I said. "We'll start a collection, maybe could give someone a 'hand'."

Rusty's eyes flicked to the crowbar I'd brought. "Now that looks more like it."

"Figured it was time to get serious."

"Better late then never kid."

He took it from me, and tested the weight. "This'll help. Some of these crates are sealed with actual reinforced latches. Might as well have welded 'em shut."

I glanced around at the ones we hadn't cracked yet. Too many.

"We're not opening everything today, we wont be able to for months." I said, already pulling up the System Mission Log in my mind.

[SYSTEM ALERT – NEW MISSIONS AVAILABLE]

MAIN TASK UNLOCKED:Warehouse Survey Initiative

Description: Conduct a formal scan and log 5 unique crate categories in the warehouse. Each must be tagged with type, estimated weight, and contents if visible.Reward: +60 EXP, +2 System Points, +1 Storage Expansion Credit

SIDE TASK UNLOCKED:Upgrade Prep

Description: Begin prepping basic tools and workspace area for crafting. Identify 3 items in the warehouse that can be used to make a simple tool or weapon.Reward: +35 EXP, crafting tips menu upgrade.

There we go. Something different for once.

I dismissed the window and stood up. Rusty glanced at me, brow raised. "So what you gonna do now"

"Nothing to do so I guess I'll play inventory boy," I said, grabbing the chalk stub I brought from home and a half-rusted kitchen knife I had no intention of using unless I needed tetanus on demand. "I'm gonna start marking crates."

"Need a hand?"

"Yeah. You go left, I'll go right. Look for anything we haven't opened. Or dented."

"You do know that theres the other big room as well as the smaller ones right? Theres hundreds of crates, boxes and lockers, both big and small.

I shrugged.

"Better get to it then, if you can reach some or something just leave it"

We started working. Rusty, for all his eccentric muttering, had a good eye. He pointed out a few crate types I hadn't even noticed, long storage bins that might've held tools, and one barrel sealed with wax paper and some kind of ancient tape that smelled like vinegar and war crimes.

I tagged each with a quick symbol. Estimated weight. Visible contents. We hit five within minutes

The second I marked the last one, the system pinged softly again.

[MISSION COMPLETE: Warehouse Survey Initiative]+60 EXP+2 System Points+1 Storage Expansion Credit

I didn't smile. Not really. But I definitely grinned a little on the inside.

[LEVEL PROGRESS: 75/150 EXP]

Not bad. I was starting to feel like a real operator.

Then came the ping for the side task, and a new task that was basically the same as the previous one, tag more crates this time 20 for less exp and system points, though its good that making Rusty do it also counts as ticking towards the milestone.

I looked back at the pile of junk in the corner. Most of it was bent nails and moldy rags. But I saw potential. A broken clamp. A bent screwdriver. The busted flashlight that I might be able to fix.

I stacked them near Rusty's rudimentary workbench, that also probably functions as his table, it being 4 empty crates in a square.

[SIDE MISSION COMPLETE: Upgrade Prep]+35 EXPmore crafting tips unlocked in the menu

[NEW TIPS AVAILABLE IN CRAFTING TIPS MENU]Access small upgrades and tips for repurposing trash into semi-functional tools. Requires basic components to operate. UPGRADE - Your crafts are less prone to spontaneously falling apart.

Well, its something at least.

I opened the tab, a simple list of new recipes. Duct tape plus knife hilt equals crude shiv. Scrap cord and tin lid? Emergency tripwire. Basic stuff, but it was a start.

Rusty walked up beside me, peering over my shoulder like he could see the same menu. He couldn't. But he sensed something had shifted.

"You get a new spell or something?"

"Something like that," I said, flipping the page to a section titled Makeshift Survival Gear: For When the World Hates You.

"Good," he said, sitting on an upside-down bucket like it was a throne. "This place is gonna need upgrades if we plan on staying."

I didn't correct the "we." Just nodded, like I meant to build an empire all along.

The second I turned to mark another crate, the man was already shifting gear around, pulling what looked like an old work light off the shelf and trying to get the wiring to behave. I caught him muttering under his breath—something about "if it sparks, we run" which filled me with tremendous amount of fucking confidence.

I left him to it. I had my own mission.

The other wing of the warehouse wasn't as cramped, but it was darker. Cold air hung heavy, and some of the crates were stacked so high they reached the old steel rafters. Most of these weren't the easy kind either, they had full-on metal clamps, chains, and faded stenciled warnings in a dozen languages. One even had "AUTHORIZED TECHNICAL STAFF ONLY" written in French.

Much oui oui bagguette.

Which just meant definitely lootable, and good kind as well.

I tapped a few crates with the crowbar, testing the integrity. Most were too heavy to even budge. Whatever was inside, it wasn't feathers and hope.

That's when I heard it.

Not a growl. Not footsteps. Just a faint creak, above me.

I froze. Looked up.

A pipe, rusted to hell, shifted slightly under one of the suspended crates. I stepped back fast, already calculating the angle it'd fall if it went.

It didn't. But the warning was noted.

The deeper you go, the more the place feels... loaded. Like the ghosts of whatever old-world operation used to run here were still watching. Judging. Maybe laughing.

I kept working. Every crate I tagged gave me a little more clarity on what kind of mess I was dealing with. Old construction gear. Medical pallets. Even a few things wrapped in anti-static foil that made my skin itch just looking at them.

Then came the real prize.

One crate. Medium size. Metal trimmed. But it wasn't locked.

Just... sealed.

Like someone didn't want it opened more than they wanted it stolen.

I leaned closer. No noises inside. No weird smells. No obvious "hello, I'm a bomb" markings.

Tempting.

But Rusty's voice echoed faintly behind me before I could start prying.

"Don't touch the ones with red seals," he said. "Trust me. Had a friend lose three fingers once because some crate had a pressure seal rigged."

I looked down. Sure enough, faint red paint ran along the crate's seams.

"Well, damn," I muttered, stepping back.

I marked it with an X. Future problem. Possibly future explosion.

Rusty joined me a minute later, carrying what might've been a functional desk lamp or a repurposed toaster. "Found a light source. Might work if we juice it. Place has a power line that runs back to the old fuse box. Saw it in the corner. Looks… promising. Which is apocalypse-speak for 'it won't electrocute us immediately.'" I heard him mumble something close to maybe after he said that.

I feel the confidence my man, its absolutely briming.

I gave him a nod. "We'll test it when we're not standing in a puddle."

He chuckled and patted one of the marked crates. "You know, we could build something down here. Real setup. Generator. Storage. Beds, maybe."

"That sounds suspiciously like work," I muttered.

"Then I'll supervise," he said, grinning.

I shook my head, but I couldn't deny the idea had merit. There was enough space to turn one of these wings into a kind of base. Safe zones were rare. One you could build? Even rarer.

My stomach growled right then, which reminded me I hadn't eaten in hours. That half a biscuit wasn't holding up.

But more importantly…

[NEW SIDE TASK UNLOCKED – Make Yourself at Home]

Description: Claim a defined "base corner" in the warehouse. Create or assign at least 3 essential zones (Storage, Rest, Work) and begin setup.

Reward: +120 EXP, +1 Comfort Buff (Temporary)

Of course it would call it that.

I dismissed the window and glanced around. Yeah. Maybe it was time to start thinking bigger.

The walk back to the surface always felt longer than going down.

Not just because the slope was against me, or because my legs still hated stairs, or because the warehouse air clung to your clothes like guilt. It was the silence. That heavy, post-mission kind of silence, where your brain kept rolling even after your body wanted to stop.

I surfaced near one of the maintenance sheds, skirted the outer utility wall, and slipped into the Spine with my best attempt at casual teen-boy-who-definitely-didn't-have-a-hardened-bunker energy. Mostly worked, I hope so at least.

No way in hell am I ready to be interrogated by a sadistic FEDRA officer, well maybe if shes hot.

NO, I am not going that direction with my thoughts. Bad fucking brain.

After a while I spotted it, Lia's stall was slow today. Late afternoon crowd hadn't hit yet, and her aunt was off haggling with someone over dried rice and bleach wipes. Good timing.

She spotted me the second I slipped into view, arms crossed, lips already forming a question she didn't bother saying.

"Need something?" she asked, eyes sharp. Not unfriendly. Just… pointed.

"Depends," I said, hands in my pockets. "You still got that junk crate with the busted garden shears, rusted screwdrivers, and whatever mystery parts you were trying to call 'salvage-grade' last week?"

"I told you, those were still functional."

"You called a melted plier 'artisanal metalwork.'"

She shrugged. "Might fetch something with the right buyer."

I smirked. "Well, I might be that buyer."

Her head tilted slightly. "So now you're into scrap tools?"

"Maybe."

She didn't say anything. Just kept staring.

I shifted my weight. "Look, I'm just trying to build a little… project. Something small. Repurpose junk, maybe fix something up."

"Fix what?"

"You know. Stuff. Maybe a lock. Maybe a door. Maybe a pipe that isn't trying to flood an entire substructure."

I was vague on purpose. She hated that.

"You're not subtle, Reyes," she said, pulling a small crate closer. "You're not bad, but you're definitely hiding something. So why don't you just tell me what this is for?"

"Can't."

"Won't," she corrected, flatly.

"That is correct madam" I replied, copying the flatness of her tone.

She handed me a bent wrench. "You're not scavenging. Not legally. You'd have to log it with inventory control. And you're definitely not repairing anything in the Spine or around it. I'd know."

"Maybe I just want to tinker."

She raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit."

"Wow, so you can swear! Good job girl, so proud of you, I must be rubbing off on you"

She just gave me the blankest stare, as if looking through me, she just kept the wrench in front of her.

I shrugged, accepting the wrench anyway. "Call it a hobby. It's quiet. It keeps me out of trouble."

"That's the opposite of what it sounds like."

"I'm not doing anything stupid."

"That's exactly what someone doing something stupid would say."

I clicked my tongue.

Touché.

I glanced around. Her aunt was still arguing three stalls down, and a FEDRA trooper was posted on the other side of the square, too bored to care. We had maybe ninety seconds of privacy.

So I leaned in a little, kept my voice low. "Lia. I just need a few basic things. Crowbar-grade tools, duct tape, wire, maybe a multitool if it doesn't fall apart in my hands."

"And in return?"

"Info. Scav tips. And a full pack of ration vitamins I haven't opened yet."

She blinked. "Those still have shelf life?"

"Five months, give or take. Long enough to trade."

That got her.

She looked down at the crate, fingers drumming the edge. "Fine. I'll pull something together. But you're telling me what this is for eventually."

I gave her a thin smile. "Eventually's a long time."

"Well this 'eventually' better be sooner, rather than later."

Before I could back out or make another quip, she added, "Also, I saw you limping the other day. Again."

"Eh, its not that bad" It definitely was that bad. "At least It's not infected."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then stop looking at me like I'm about to drop dead or worse."

"I'm not. I'm looking at you like you're doing something reckless and thinking you're clever about it."

Which was... fair.

But also annoying.

I took the bent wrench, nodded once, and turned to go.

"Cal," she called out as I took a step.

I paused.

"If you get caught," she said, voice soft but firm, "I won't cover for you and hope your death isint that painful."

Aww

"Is miss little ice princess showing care for me?"

She lifted a pretty heavy looking hammer

"I will smash your head so you're stop being an idiot."

I raised a hand in lazy salute. "Yeah. But I'm your idiot."

She muttered something under her breath that I'm pretty sure included a curse and the phrase "dumbass raccoon."

I took that as a win.

Because for all her suspicion, she hadn't said no.

And right now, that was all I needed.

The wrench Lia gave me was bent like someone had tried to use it as a crowbar, then panicked and turned it into modern art. Still better than nothing.

By the time I made it back to the sewer tunnel, the sun was down and Boston was bathing in its usual post-curfew gloom. Streetlamps flickered like they owed someone power. A FEDRA patrol stalked the block two streets over. I timed my steps with their movements, dipped into a narrow alley, and disappeared behind the chain-linked dumpster that marked the tunnel access.

Twenty minutes later, I was back underground — my breath fogging up in the cold, the taste of rust already seeping into the back of my throat. My legs ached, but I ignored them. The kind of ache you start calling familiar.

Rusty was hunched over the makeshift worktable when I got there, a little pile of scrap in front of him, a busted flashlight between his palms. He glanced up.

"Found anything good?"

"Define 'good,'" I said, dropping the bent wrench, a bit of stripped wire, and some small rusted screws onto the table.

He inspected them like I'd just handed over treasure. "Hell yeah. This'll work."

"For what?"

"A start."

He picked up the wrench, rotated it, and nodded to himself like a man seeing an old friend. "You know, back in the day—"

"Back in the day you were still in a junk pile."

"Sure I was. Every junk pile had someone like me."

I didn't argue. Arguing with Rusty about his possibly-fake past was like arguing with a wall that occasionally quoted 1940s engineering manuals. It wasn't worth the headache.

Instead, I dropped my pack beside the worktable and got to it.

First goal: a safer weapon.

The pipe I'd been using was serviceable, but if I was gonna be cracking crates open like a socially maladjusted raccoon, I needed something better.

I laid the pipe flat, tested its weight again, and started running wire down one side like a grip. Then I grabbed the duct tape, reinforced the handle, wrapped the end into a crude rubberized knot, and jammed the bent wrench into a split near the tip.

Rusty raised an eyebrow.

"Improvised trench tool?" he guessed.

"Improvised shut-the-hell-up stick," I muttered, tightening the wire.

It looked like garbage. But it felt solid.

The system chimed quietly in my head.

[ITEM CRAFTED: Reinforced Scrap Club – Grade: Poor+]Description: Still looks like trash. Hits harder than it should. Slightly more durable than a regular pipe.

Buff: +5% chance to stagger targets.

Debuff: Makes an annoying clang on impact.

I nodded to myself. It would do, I just hope the sound isint that annoying pipe meme or whatever the fuck.

Rusty grinned. "You've got the soul of a junkyard priest, kid."

"Thanks. I think, want me to bless your trash?"

He reached under the worktable and pulled out a chunk of wood, splintered but not rotted. "You want to try your hand at a handle for that busted flashlight?"

"Later," I said, storing the club in my backpack. "One tool at a time."

I took a step back and looked around.

The warehouse was still just piles of dust and ghosts. But now, there was a corner with a table. A corner with purpose. A place to tinker. To plan.

To build.

Rusty glanced at the half-wired desk lamp he'd been working on. "Power line's still dead. Fuse box looked like someone used it for target practice."

"Can we fix it?"

"Maybe. Might blow the rest of the lights though. Could try rigging it to a battery."

"Do we have a battery?"

"Not yet."

I nodded. "Add it to the list."

He did, with a rusted nail on a piece of drywall.

I sat down on the edge of a crate and stretched my legs. The ache was sharper now. Hungry. But I didn't move yet. I just stared at the wall, at the makeshift workstation, the half-lamp, the scrap pile.

This wasn't a base, not yet at least.

I left before midnight.

Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Even secret lives had curfews when your parents wore FEDRA uniforms and your apartment had exactly one thin door between you and a very loud, very military mother.

Rusty didn't argue when I packed up. Just gave me a nod like I was clocking out of a very weird shift. He went back to tinkering with the busted desk lamp, mumbling about voltage and how "grounding is for cowards."

I stepped into the sewer tunnel, the warehouse door sealing behind me with a dull metallic thunk. That sound always hit like a checkpoint. Safe behind, danger ahead. Or maybe just more of the same.

The first stretch was quiet — too quiet.

The wet stone corridor stretched on forever, smelling like rot, mold, and a broken filtration system that hadn't been paid union wages in decades. Every step was a calculated squelch. My backpack thumped lightly against my shoulders with every move, its weight reassuring. The new club inside gave off a faint metallic clink when it hit the crowbar strapped beside it.

I kept the flashlight off. Didn't want to risk anyone seeing even a flicker through one of the sidewalk drains. Instead, I walked by memory and sound, hand brushing the wall, counting the pipes and side routes.

The tunnel's shift point, where the air grew colder and the ground sloped up toward the surface it always hit me in the bones. Like the system itself had a spine, and this was one of the vertebrae.

Fifteen minutes later, I was out and about the street hands stinking of mildew and victory. The street was dead, in that way cities get when everyone's too scared to move and too hungry to sleep. A patrol passed in the distance. Two soldiers, helmets too big, radios crackling nonsense.

I waited behind the broken dumpster until they turned the corner.

Then I ran.

Not fast, not loud but just enough speed to avoid second-guessing myself. I cut across the alley near the ration depot, slipped behind a stack of collapsed pallets, and climbed the fence like I'd done it a hundred times. Which I had.

The mid-tier FEDRA blocks weren't far now. You could tell by how the trash got cleaner and the lights flickered slightly less.

I slid into my building just after one, shoes muddy, hoodie damp. My ribs ached again. The apartment door was still locked, same old key code four digits my dad swore weren't his badge number but absolutely were.

Inside: dim light, soft hum of the radio in the kitchen. Mom must've forgotten to turn it off again.

I stood in the hallway a moment, just breathing.

No alarms. No parents waiting in the dark with lectures or loaded pistols.

I made it.

I was safe.

Well… relatively.

I peeled off my outer hoodie and dropped the backpack next to my bed, careful not to make it thump too loud. I had one sock soaked from stepping in something unspeakable, and one half-eaten protein bar still wrapped in lint.

I slipped into the kitchen like a half-trained raccoon. Quiet. Dirty. Underrated in a knife fight.

The radio was still on — low volume, static woven between the news. Some pre-recorded FEDRA statement about unity, ration adjustments, and a reminder that curfews save lives. They always said it like curfews weren't just glorified adult bedtimes enforced by rifle.

I reached to turn it off.

"Leave it."

Dad's voice came from the corner of the living room. Dim light from a weak lamp lit his silhouette, still in uniform, boots off, jacket slung over the armrest.

I didn't jump. Mostly because I'd trained myself not to. Panic makes noise. Noise gets you dead.

"You're up late," I said.

He grunted, which in dad-speak meant you're lucky I'm too tired to lecture you. He gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Sit."

I sat.

He watched me for a long beat. Not angry. Not even suspicious. Just tired. That kind of soul-worn exhaustion you only get from pulling triple shifts and pretending you're fine.

"You look like hell," he said.

"Thanks. I've been cultivating the aesthetic."

He didn't smile, but his brow twitched the closest my dad got to amused after 10 PM.

"You work late?"

"Yeah. Cleaning duty ran long."

"With who?"

"Just me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Just you?"

"Most of the others bailed early. Guess I didn't notice the time."

He nodded slowly. Not believing. Not disbelieving. Just filing it away for later.

"You still hurting?" he asked.

"Leg's mostly better. Ribs ache. Head's fine."

"You sleeping okay?"

"Yeah." Lie. But not a dangerous one.

He leaned back and rubbed his face. I caught a glimpse of the lines under his eyes, deeper than usual. Then he reached into the drawer by his side and pulled out a ration tin. Tossed it to me.

"Extra stew. Eat it before your mom wakes up."

"That's illegal, Sergeant Reyes."

"And?"

I smirked. Opened it. Cold, gray-brown protein mush never tasted so good.

"Your mom's worried," he said after a while. "You've been quieter. More… distant."

"Just tired. School's been annoying."

"That's a default state, not an excuse."

I didn't answer. He didn't push.

"You hear about the warehouse incident on the north end?" he asked.

My brain stalled.

"Which one?"

"Storage block near the hospital. Said some squatters tried to move in. Place collapsed halfway. No bodies, just noise."

"...Yeah. Heard something at school."

He eyed me. Like he knew I was testing my deflection speed. Then he just said, "Stay away from that area. Orders are coming down to fence it off. We're not putting resources into clearing it."

"Got it."

We both knew I wouldn't. But it was polite to lie.

He stood with a grunt and headed toward the bedroom. Paused halfway.

"You're getting older, Cal. Faster than you should. But don't forget, whatever you're doing out there, it's not just you who deals with the fallout."

Then he was gone.

No lecture. No speech.

Just that quiet, dangerous kind of disappointment wrapped in care.

I sat in the silence for a while, tin half-empty, brain buzzing.

Then I turned off the radio, cleaned the spoon, and headed to my room — slower this time, like I could shake the weight of the conversation off on the way there.

Tomorrow was coming fast.

And I had more than one life to balance.

I made my way down the hallway, quietly as to not wake up my mom. My room was exactly the same as I'd left it: too quiet, too small, and too good at making me feel like I hadn't done enough.

I dropped the backpack by the wall with a soft thud and peeled off the hoodie. The duct-tape seams were starting to go again. I'd patch it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or when it finally fell apart and declared union status.

The mattress creaked under me like it resented the hours I'd spent somewhere else. I flopped back, let my arms stretch over my head, and stared at the ceiling like it owed me answers.

A faint ping echoed in the back of my head.

[Status Updated][Comfort Buff (Temporary) — Active]

Minor Mood Recovery

Fatigue Reduction (Low)

Improved Focus (Short Duration)

Right. From the base corner. Guess throwing some boxes together and calling it "Home" was enough to earn a gold star in the post-apocalyptic kindergarten I lived in.

I didn't hate it.

A flick of thought brought the system window back to the front of my mind.

[SYSTEM STATUS]

Name: Callum ReyesAge: 11Level: 2Current Job: Civilian (Unranked)EXP: 110 / 150System Points: 4Scavenger Rank Credits: 1Summon Tokens: 0Condition: StableBuffs: Comfort (Temporary)Debuffs: NoneEquipped: Makeshift Pipe (Poor), Duct-Tape Reinforced BackpackInventory: Crowbar, water pouch, stale ration biscuit (half), broken flashlight, two zip ties, metal clamp, screwdriver shaftMenus Unlocked: Crafting Tips, Relationship

 I'd need to clear a dedicated rest area and something that passed for a work zone — real work. Not just a crate table and Rusty's optimistic ramblings.

Rusty.The guy was weirdly comforting. Not just useful, but… present. Human in a way I hadn't expected. And maybe that's what bothered me.

He wasn't real. Not in the way people were supposed to be. Not like Lia or Joe. But he cracked jokes and watched my back and gave bad advice with the confidence of a man who'd raised four kids and lost all his tools in a divorce.

How long could something fake feel real before it stopped mattering?

I reached for the busted flashlight in my bag, turning it over in my hands. No power. But not beyond repair.

Another soft ping in the corner of my mind.

[New Crafting Tip Unlocked]"One Light in the Dark" — Recipe: Working Flashlight (Basic)Requires: Flashlight Casing, Power Source (Jury-Rigged), Small Copper Wire, Tape or Binding

I smirked. Guess the system was listening. Creepy bastard.

But useful.

I set the flashlight on the desk beside my bed — if you could call a warped shelf board and two bricks a desk — and lay back again.

Tomorrow I'd clear out another corner. Maybe see if I could get a power line running. Start the work zone. See if Rusty had more phantom memories about generators.

Maybe talk to Lia again.Or not. She was getting sharper. Closer to questions I didn't want to answer.

Then there was Joe. Quiet, twitchy Joe, who pretended not to notice patterns but probably saw more than I wanted him to. I'd have to manage that soon.

I closed my eyes.

The QZ was rotting slowly. The world outside faster. But here, under a rusted warehouse I was building something real.

One crate at a time.

And for now… that was enough.

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