Alex freezes, his hand hovering inches from the cold steel door.
The click of the rifle's safety is the loudest sound he has ever heard. It is a sound of absolute finality.
He fell into thought, a fresh wave of adrenaline washing away his exhaustion. Great. Just great. I survive cannibals, giant damn murder-insects, and a broken ankle, just to get shot by the welcome wagon. This world really knows how to roll out the red carpet.
The voice from the shuttered slit is steady, disciplined, and utterly without panic. That, more than the rifle, terrifies him. This is not a frightened victim. This is a professional.
Slowly, deliberately, he raises his empty hands into the dim light, showing they hold no weapons.
"Whoa, easy there," he says, his voice raspy from thirst and exhaustion. "I'm not looking for a fight. I'm just looking for a place to not die for five minutes."
There is a long, tense silence from within the bunker.
"Who are you?" the voice demands, sharp and suspicious. "Where did you come from? Are you with the Scrappers?"
Scrappers. So that's what they call themselves.
"My name is Alex," he says, leaning heavily on the spear he's using as a crutch. He needs to play this perfectly. He has no strength to fight, no energy to run. He only has the truth. Or, a version of it.
"I was their prisoner. In their camp, west of here. I just escaped." He gestures with his head back the way he came. "They're hunting me right now."
"Prisoners don't escape the Scrappers," the voice shoots back, laced with disbelief. "They get eaten."
"I got lucky," Alex says, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "And I killed their leader to do it. Look," he adds, pushing his injured leg forward. "My ankle is broken. I'm unarmed. I am not a threat to you. I'm just trying to live until sunrise."
He waits, every muscle in his body screaming. He is completely at her mercy.
She's alone, he thinks, analyzing her voice. She's scared, but she's hiding it well. She's survived this long, so she's not stupid. She's weighing the odds. Is the man outside a bigger threat than the monsters he's running from?
The standoff stretches into an eternity. He can feel her eyes on him through that narrow slit, judging him, dissecting his story.
The decision is taken out of their hands.
From the darkness of the wasteland behind him, a low, mournful howl rises into the night. It is answered by another, closer this time.
The hounds.
"You hear that?" Alex says, his voice urgent. "That's them. They tracked me. You can leave me out here to die, and they'll have their meal and probably move on. Or... you can let me in, and you'll have one more person to watch the walls when they realize there's a bigger prize inside this tower."
He is no longer begging. He is negotiating. He is offering her a choice based on a logic as brutal and simple as this world: mutual survival.
The howling gets closer. He can hear the scrabble of claws on rock.
A series of loud, metallic clunks echoes from behind the steel door. Bolts being drawn back.
The door groans open, just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
"Get in. Now," the woman's voice commands.
Alex doesn't hesitate. He throws his spear-crutch inside and hauls his broken body through the gap. The heavy door slams shut behind him, and the bolts slam home, plunging the small room into near-total darkness.
He gets his first look at her in the dim light filtering through the firing slit.
She is lean and tough, dressed in a patchwork of worn leather and military fatigues. Her face is smudged with dirt, her dark hair cut short and practical. She holds a military-grade assault rifle with an ease that speaks of long, bitter familiarity. But it is her eyes that capture him. They are sharp, intelligent, and filled with a deep, soul-crushing weariness.
She keeps the rifle aimed squarely at his chest.
"You make one wrong move, you're dead," she says, her voice low and even. "You try anything, you're dead. You brought that trouble to my door. If they get in because of you... you'll wish you were."
"Understood," Alex says, his throat dry.
The last of his adrenaline finally gives out. A wave of dizziness washes over him. The pain in his ankle, which he had been holding at bay, returns with a vengeance. He slumps against the cold concrete wall, his leg giving way, and slides to the floor with a groan.
As his vision begins to tunnel, a final, desperate thought cuts through the pain.
Analyze.
Lines of glowing text, visible only to him, bloom in the darkness.
[Being: Maya Rostova. Status: Malnourished, Fatigued, Stressed (High).]
[Properties: Agility (High), Marksmanship (Expert), Trust (Critically Low).]
[Affiliation: 7th Mechanized Infantry Division (Sole Survivor).]
Alex stares at the last line, a jolt of pure shock cutting through his haze of pain.
Rostova.
The name from the beacon. The voice in the static.
He hadn't just stumbled into a random survivor's shelter. He had found her.
He had completed his insane, suicidal mission. And his reward was to be at the mercy of the very person he came to save.
His world fades to black.