The color drained from Jenna's face as understanding crashed over her like a wave of ice water.
"You—" she stammered, eyes wide in disbelief, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're joking, right?"
He wasn't.
The silence that followed answered her question more definitively than words could.
Elric didn't need to threaten her with starvation. A woman like Jenna—spoiled, arrogant, born into comfort and privilege—would break faster under humiliation than hunger. He understood that instinctively.
For someone who'd lived her entire life being served, being catered to, being treated like minor royalty, being reduced to a servant—no, worse than a servant, to someone who ate scraps—would shatter her pride far more deeply than any slap or physical blow.
And he knew it. He'd calculated it.
"You bastard!" she hissed, her voice trembling with fury that couldn't quite mask the desperation beneath. "You think I'll— I'll eat your scraps?!"
She stomped her foot, her sneakers squeaking against the tile floor in a gesture that would have been almost comical if it wasn't so tragic. She glared at him with red, furious eyes that were beginning to well with tears.
Her rage was real—but so was her desperation. And they both knew which one would win eventually.
Elric didn't flinch, didn't show any emotion at all. "I've given you a choice," he said with that same quiet certainty. "What you become depends on how you decide."
He turned away, dismissing her completely, ignoring the tears forming in her eyes and beginning to track down her cheeks.
Natasha, sitting on the couch nearby, hid a smirk behind her hand, pretending to check her phone.
She'd been pretending not to listen, to be absorbed in scrolling through dead social media feeds, but watching Jenna's pride crumble bit by bit was strangely satisfying in a way she didn't want to examine too closely.
Before the world fell apart, Jenna had strutted around campus like a queen—always sneering at others, especially at people like Natasha who actually worked for a living, who didn't have family connections or trust funds.
Now, the mighty Jenna was standing in their apartment, trembling and hungry, being offered scraps like a stray dog.
Karma, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
Elric didn't waste more time on the conversation. He took Natasha by the wrist—the gesture possessive, almost casual in its ownership—and led her toward the master bedroom.
Jenna's shout followed them down the hall, muffled by distance but clear in its fury. "You're all insane!"
He didn't answer. Didn't dignify it with a response.
The lock clicked behind them with a sound of finality.
There was no escape for her anyway. Elric had reinforced the doors the night before—metal brackets salvaged from a hardware store, extra chains scavenged from a construction site, and a heavy steel padlock that could probably withstand a battering ram.
Only his key could open it.
If she wanted to run, she'd have to break through the barricades first—and in this world, the noise alone would attract a dozen infected before she even made it out of the building. The mutants seemed drawn to sound like moths to flame.
She was trapped. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
Hours passed with agonizing slowness.
The apartment filled with the low hum of generators Elric had hooked up, the faint sound of wind outside carrying strange whistles and moans, and another sound—soft at first, then louder—that Jenna wished she could unhear coming from the bedroom.
Natasha's voice, low and breathless. The creak of bedsprings. Sounds that painted too clear a picture.
Her face flushed with anger and humiliation as she sat alone at the table, staring at the bowls of half-eaten noodles they'd left behind. The broth was cooling now, a film forming on its surface.
Her stomach growled so loudly it echoed in the quiet apartment.
She clenched her jaw, tears welling in her eyes again. "No. I won't…" she whispered to herself, a mantra, a prayer, a last defense. "I won't do it. I won't..."
But the smell—the smell of food, even cold food, even leftovers—was too much.
Finally, her trembling hands reached out.
She tried to stop herself, tried to pull back, but her body had other ideas. Survival instinct overrode pride.
She dipped her fingers into the cold broth and brought it to her lips.
The salty taste hit her tongue, and something inside her broke completely. She broke down, sobbing quietly as she drank the leftovers of the man she hated most in the world, tears mixing with the broth as she gulped it down desperately.
Through the thin wall, the sound of Natasha's soft voice carried from the other room, saying something Jenna couldn't quite make out.
Jenna's tears stopped.
Her eyes hardened, the crying cutting off as if a switch had been flipped.
If this was the world now… then she'd find a way to survive it.
No matter what it cost. No matter what she had to become.
Pride didn't fill stomachs. Dignity didn't quench thirst.
She understood that now.
Later that night, when darkness had settled completely and the only light came from battery-powered lamps casting long shadows, Elric and Natasha were resting in the master bedroom.
The door creaked open without warning.
Natasha shot up instantly, pulling the blanket up to cover herself, glaring at the doorway with indignation and anger.
"What the hell? Don't you know how to knock?" she snapped, her voice sharp with territorial fury.
Jenna stepped into the room slowly, as if entering a throne room.
Her eyes were red, bloodshot from crying and from sleeplessness. Her hair was disheveled, hanging in limp strands around her face. But her expression was calm, almost eerily so—all the fire and fury from earlier had been extinguished, replaced by something else.
Something broken but determined.
She ignored Natasha completely, as if the other woman didn't exist, and walked straight to Elric with measured steps.
Then, slowly, she knelt down beside the bed.
The gesture was deliberate, formal, final.
"Master…" she said, her voice trembling but clear.
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