Date: April 18th, 2027
Place: New York City – Lower East Side – Elias' Apartment Building
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The Brute's corpse was gone, but the items it left behind remained. The shard and crystal had already proven different from anything else we'd seen, but when Claire absorbed hers, I noticed something strange.
The air shimmered faintly around her, and then… nothing. The crystal had vanished without a trace.
Miguel frowned. "So where the hell did it go? That light didn't just… evaporate."
Claire blinked, still clutching her hands to her chest. "I… I think it went inside me."
"Not what I meant." Miguel stood, pacing. "If these things drop loot, what happens when it's not some glowing rock? What if it's food? Or water? We gonna carry everything in our arms like idiots?"
The question hung there.
I felt it too — a gnawing sense that the System was deeper than what we'd scratched.
I focused inward, the same way I had when I first summoned my Status.
"Inventory," I said softly.
The HUD shimmered again.
---
[Inventory: 5 / 10 Slots Occupied]
- Hammer (Equipped)
- Cloth Bandage (x2)
- Bottled Water (x1, half-full)
- Brute Fang (Weapon Component)
- Rusted Nails (x12)
[Capacity scales with Endurance and Tier. Items do not decay inside Inventory unless marked perishable.]
---
I exhaled sharply. "It's there."
Miguel leaned in. "What's it say?"
I showed him. His eyes widened. "Holy shit… a backpack in your head."
Claire tilted her head. "Inventory…?" She whispered it, and her eyes widened as her own HUD shifted. "It's real. It's… I have one too."
Miguel barked a laugh. "Then so do I. About damn time we got something useful out of this freak show."
He pulled up his own panel and crowed. "Ha! I've got an unopened bag of chips. Was wondering why I didn't drop 'em earlier. Guess they're in this 'inventory' thing now."
Claire blinked. "So… it keeps things safe? Even food?"
"Only if it doesn't rot already," I murmured, scanning the fine text. "Says perishable items will still decay. But normal supplies won't. Tools, water, weapons—they'll stay as they are."
Miguel grinned, shaking his head. "Man, if I had this when I worked construction, I'd have saved a fortune on gym bags."
Despite herself, Claire gave the faintest laugh.
---
We tested it more.
Miguel pulled the wrench in and out of his Inventory with a thought, grinning like a kid with a toy. Claire carefully stored her stake, watching it vanish into the shimmer, then reappear in her hand with a nervous gasp.
I tested my own water bottle — it appeared and disappeared instantly, the weight gone from my hand when stored. The hammer, too, though it felt wrong to let it out of my grip for more than a second.
Claire's brow furrowed as she stared at her HUD. "I only have… eight slots."
Miguel cursed. "Nine for me. How many you got, Elias?"
"Ten," I said.
Miguel whistled low. "Guess it scales with how tough you are."
"Endurance," I said. "It mentioned Endurance boosts capacity. Higher tiers too."
Claire's lips pressed tight. "So… I'll always have less?"
"No," I said gently. "When you grow, it grows with you. You'll get there."
Her hazel eyes softened faintly, and she nodded.
Miguel shoved his wrench back into his inventory with a grin. "Well, I'll take it. Can't believe we've been hauling junk like cavemen when this was right here."
"We didn't know," I said simply.
"Yeah, but we do now." His grin faded as he glanced at the Brute's bloodstained remains. "Question is… how much more don't we know?"
The silence after that question was heavier than any weight the System could measure.
---
We pressed deeper into the building.
The air grew colder the lower we went, shadows stretching long across the broken halls. Every corner we turned revealed more stories of the collapse.
A door barricaded with furniture, blood seeping beneath. A hallway littered with shoes and bags abandoned mid-flight. Walls marked with desperate scrawls in pen: Stay Quiet, Stay Alive.
Claire read each one softly, her voice low, reverent. Miguel didn't speak much, though his jaw tightened each time we passed more blood.
We found another body on the fifth floor landing — an older man in a suit, briefcase still clutched in his stiff hand. His face was half-gone, eyes clouded pale.
Miguel shook his head. "Probably thought he could get out and make a meeting. Poor bastard."
I searched the briefcase out of habit. Nothing but papers, pens, and a family photo. I set it back down gently, placing the photo on his chest.
Claire watched silently, her eyes shimmering.
Miguel glanced at me, then looked away quickly, muttering, "Huh."
---
The sound of hammering reached us next.
Faint, rhythmic. Not claws. Not fists. Tools.
We froze, listening.
Miguel's eyes narrowed. "That's not one of them."
"No," I murmured. "It's someone alive."
Claire's breath hitched. "Another survivor?"
The sound came from an apartment at the far end of the hall. A heavy thud, followed by grunted curses.
We approached slowly.
The door was barricaded with planks nailed across haphazardly, the wood dented and stained. Behind it came the voice of a man — rough, gravelly, weary.
"Damn nails… useless piece of—" Another thud. "Should've just let it all burn."
Miguel raised a brow. "Friendly guy."
I stepped closer, knocking once against the doorframe.
The hammering stopped. Silence fell.
Then: "Who the hell's there?"
"Survivors," I said evenly.
A pause. Then a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Sure. That's what the last bunch said before they tried to rob me blind."
Claire flinched, whispering, "He doesn't trust us."
"Why would he?" I murmured back.
Miguel stepped forward, voice raised. "Hey, old man! We just fought one of those big freaks upstairs. If we wanted you dead, we wouldn't be knocking!"
Another pause. Then the sound of metal scraping against wood. The door creaked open slightly, a single wary eye peering through the gap.
He was older, grizzled, with gray streaks in his black hair and a permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. His arms were still thick with muscle beneath a dirt-streaked flannel, but his posture carried the weight of exhaustion.
His gaze flicked across us, sharp and distrustful.
"Three of you," he muttered. "One looks like he's seen worse, one looks like he just wants to swing at things, and one looks like she'll break if the wind blows too hard." His eyes narrowed. "I don't need dead weight."
Claire stiffened, her face pale. Miguel bristled instantly. "Say that again, viejo, and I'll—"
"Enough," I cut in.
The old man's eyes locked on me. Testing. Measuring.
"What's your name?" I asked.
His lips curled into a humorless smile. "Henry. Foreman. Used to run crews in this very building." He spat to the side. "Now I just wait for the damn roof to fall in."
Miguel muttered, "Cheery bastard, isn't he?"
Henry's gaze sharpened again. "You want in? Prove you're not just mouths to feed."
I met his eyes steadily. "We're not here to take. We're here to survive. Together."
His scowl deepened as if he didn't believe me. But something in his eyes shifted.
Not trust. Not yet. But recognition.
"Then let's see how long that lasts," he muttered, stepping back and pulling the door wider.
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