The Strategist's office was a converted janitorial supply closet, its only luxury a reinforced steel door and a small folding cot Li Wei hadn't touched in thirty-six hours. The space was barely large enough for his folding desk and the array of monitors that cast a sickly, fluctuating blue light over his pale face. He was hunched over a spreadsheet projecting the depletion rate of their grain stores, the numbers blurring into an abstract pattern of impending starvation. Every line item was a life, a child, a defense turret—and every diminishing decimal point was a direct failure.
A light knock came at the door—soft, hesitant, and entirely unlike the Commander's imperious rap.
"It's open, Lin Jie," Li Wei called out, his voice a low, gravelly sound from disuse. He knew it was Lin Jie; only the Communications Expert had that particular blend of respect and irreverence that allowed him to interrupt the Strategist's work past curfew.
Lin Jie slipped inside, his hands jammed into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. Even three years of hell hadn't stripped the youthful eagerness from his face, though he was thinner now, his eyes often red from staring at the humming servers. "Strategist Li, sir. Just checking in. Sector D is dark. The moans are… louder down there when the air filtration kicks off. The residents are scared. It's too quiet."
The mention of the silence—the wrong kind of quiet—sent a tremor of anxiety through Li Wei. "It was necessary," he said, forcing the practical words past his dry throat. "The main generators are barely clinging to life. If we don't get those stabilizers today, the Citadel goes entirely dark. Not just Sector D. We'll be left with nothing but torches and the sounds of the outer perimeter breaching."
"I know, I know. Logistics, metrics, survival," Lin Jie recited with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "But listen, I found a schematic while trying to reroute the power flow! I think I can repurpose some old radio batteries and create a low-voltage emergency lighting system for the whole sector. Nothing bright, just enough to kill the shadows and quiet the rumors. If I can just get access to the defunct electrical junction behind the armory wall…"
Li Wei managed a tired, fractional smile. Lin Jie was a whirlwind of energy and ideas, a necessary spark in the perpetual gloom. "Find Zhang Lei first. If he's back, he can supervise. That junction is close to the outer wall, and I don't need you electrocuting yourself or attracting a screamer with a stray short circuit. Prioritize safety, then implement."
"Yes, sir! Strategy and safety, understood." Lin Jie paused at the door, his boyish expression turning serious. He looked Li Wei up and down, a look of genuine worry clouding his features. "Li Wei, you need to sleep. You look like one of the freshly turned, only much less enthusiastic about it."
"Go," Li Wei dismissed him gently, turning back to the glowing screen. "I have one more projection to run. Then I'll rest."
The moment Lin Jie's footsteps faded, the door burst open with a crash that rattled the overhead vent. Zhang Lei—all muscle, dirt, and raw frustration—stood framed in the doorway. He looked like he'd crawled out of a sewer: his face smeared with grime, his field armor scratched, and a fresh cut bleeding faintly above his brow.
"The run was a bust," Zhang Lei growled, tossing his customized crossbow onto the cot with reckless force, making the rickety frame shudder. "The warehouse was stripped clean. And the Commander's orders? Absolute insanity."
Li Wei's hand froze mid-air above the keyboard. His stomach dropped. "Elaborate, Scavenger. Speak clearly."
"We found a single fuel tanker, pristine, barely thirty kilometers out, just like the old maps suggested. But he held us back. Said the area was 'too high-risk.' We sat, waiting ninety minutes for his 'clearance,' which never came. We watched the sun start to drop. We knew the perimeter would be locked down before we could get back, so we finally broke protocol and went in—but it was already too late. The tank was dry, and another group beat us to the loot." Zhang Lei slammed his fist into the doorframe. "If he wasn't so damn paranctically cautious about holding the perimeter line, we would have that fuel now! We risked our necks for nothing because he won't commit to a high-risk extraction!"
Li Wei's jaw tightened, tasting ash. Zhang Lei didn't know the full strategic picture. Jiang Hu's "cautious orders" had been Li Wei's—calculated to intentionally delay the team from blundering into a known high-density nest of fast-moving, armored Infected. Jiang Hu simply took the blame to maintain the base's trust in the chain of command, refusing to expose Li Wei, the non-combat Strategist, to the field team's resentment. The Commander was always protecting him, even when it meant being hated for it.
"The Commander's orders are absolute," Li Wei said, his voice flat and cold, forcing a professional distance over the rising tide of affection and anger. "You followed them too late. Next time, follow them immediately, or face disciplinary action. Your mission is now with Lin Jie. Go."
Zhang Lei scoffed, his eyes blazing with disappointment and exhaustion. He grabbed his crossbow, saluted sloppily, and left.
Li Wei waited until the sound of the heavy boots faded completely, then slumped back in his chair, the manufactured rage draining away, leaving him hollow. He reached into the system files and pulled up the archived security feed from the Command Center, rewinding to an hour ago.
He focused the camera angle on Jiang Hu, leaning against the column. Jiang Hu's dark eyes were fixed on the external feed, his face an impenetrable mask. But then Li Wei watched the loop three times, agonizing over the tiny detail. In that instant, when Li Wei had argued about the Sector D residents, Jiang Hu's gaze had briefly but intensely shifted away from the monitor and locked directly onto Li Wei. It was a silent, unreadable assessment—a check, a flicker of raw care, or perhaps a frustrated plea for understanding.
He's just watching his asset, Li Wei fiercely told himself, fighting the desperate, foolish warmth that always spread through his chest whenever Jiang Hu's protective focus landed on him. He doesn't care about me. He cares about the Strategist. The emotional distance was a wall Jiang Hu maintained, a self-inflicted wound that kept them functional, but kept Li Wei awake at night, grieving the loss of their pre-apocalypse friendship.
The grain stores were hours from triggering mandatory cuts. The fuel projection was solidly in the red. The Citadel was hours from true disaster, a complete power failure that would lead to a riot, not a siege.
Li Wei made his decision. He opened a new encrypted channel, bypassing the standard requisition queue and sending a message directly to Zhang Lei, who was now preparing to run a different assignment with Lin Jie.
The silence in the closet felt immense, broken only by the hum of the cooling fans. The weight of his calculated lie—of his command insubordination—was heavier than the looming hordes. Li Wei knew Jiang Hu would be furious when he found out. He also knew this was the only way to force the Commander out from behind his defenses and into a desperate situation where they might finally, truly, face each other.