Morning light filtered through the cracked warehouse windows, catching on the pale gleam of Sora's skin. He adjusted the silver choker resting against his throat, then smoothed the silk of his black blouse. High-waisted white shorts hugged his narrow waist, and the faint sheen of thigh-high stockings disappeared into ankle-length heeled boots. A soft jingle came from his bangles as he moved—small sounds of civility in a world that had long forgotten them.
He opened the store's glass doors at precisely eight o'clock. The air outside was heavy with ash and dust, the horizon washed in gray.
Inside, the Nexus Exchange gleamed like a relic of another time.
> [Host, external motion detected. Ten signatures, armed. Approaching from the east.]
(Visitors, then,) Sora thought, brushing a strand of red-brown hair behind his ear. (Let's see what kind of people rumors bring.)
They appeared a minute later: ten figures in worn combat gear marked with a crimson-wolf insignia. The Iron Dogs. Their boots echoed sharply as they entered, rifles slung low. The leader—tall, sharp-faced, with ice-gray eyes—scanned the shelves, then Sora.
For a moment, silence.
"You're the one selling food," he said flatly. His gaze lingered too long, flicking between Sora's face and the faint shimmer of jewelry at his throat. "Where'd you find clean water? And real bread?"
Sora's smile was faint. "I didn't find them. I sell them."
A ripple of disbelief passed through the group. One woman stepped forward, voice trembling with excitement. "Bread? You mean actual bread? Like—before the Collapse?"
"Exactly like that." Sora lifted a neatly wrapped loaf from the shelf, the golden crust soft and fragrant. The group stared, wide-eyed, as if looking at a miracle.
The woman reached for it, then hesitated at the sign beside the counter:
NOTICE: Theft will not be tolerated.
Punishment is automatic and absolute.
"Automatic?" she echoed.
Sora only smiled, the corners of his eyes glinting crimson under the store lights. "The rules are… self-enforcing."
The leader—his name tag read Captain Kaito Renard—stepped closer, studying Sora as though measuring a threat. "We heard rumors from the refugee quarter," he said. "They say a woman in white trades jewels for real food. Some think you're a trap. Others say you're a god."
"Neither," Sora murmured. "Just a merchant."
He gestured toward the registry terminal. "If you wish to trade, register first. The system accepts metal, jewelry, or zombie cores. Prices are listed."
They hesitated only a moment longer before the hunger in their eyes won out. One by one they registered. The machine hummed, scanning fragments of metal and small gemstones. A digital voice announced their exchanges:
> Mira Tate – Silver bracelet (800 pts)
Goro Venn – Level 1 Core (100 pts)
Leila Tran – Gold ring (1,200 pts)
Kaito Renard – Platinum neck chain (5,000 pts)
(remaining members contributed mixed items, total 9,300 pts)
Sora watched quietly as they turned those points into purchases—armfuls of bread and bottled water, laughter and disbelief breaking the heavy silence.
"It tastes… real," one whispered after biting into a slice. Another pressed her palms together, eyes wet. "I thought I'd never taste wheat again."
For a few minutes, the apocalypse seemed far away.
Then one of the younger soldiers—nervous, greedy—slipped an extra bottle into his pack without scanning it.
The air changed.
A shimmer rippled through the room, color draining from the walls. Sound folded inward until even their breathing went silent. The soldier froze mid-motion, eyes wide. Slowly, impossibly, he began to blur—like wet ink running on paper—until only a faint, red-tinted box remained where he'd stood, glowing faintly on the floor.
No blood. No screams. Just silence.
The others stumbled back, horrified.
Sora's tone never shifted. "I did warn you."
The red box slid across the floor on its own, shelving itself neatly beside the counter. A small label appeared beneath it:
Zombie Attraction Unit – 200 Points.
Kaito's men didn't move. Even the air seemed afraid to breathe.
Finally, Kaito spoke—low, careful. "You did that?"
Sora tilted his head, eyes bright like garnet glass. "The system enforces balance. Not me."
Something unreadable passed through Kaito's expression—part awe, part intrigue. He lowered his weapon slowly, studying Sora as though the mystery of survival itself had taken human form.
"Then I suppose," he said quietly, "we should follow the rules."
They finished their purchases in silence, packing their goods with trembling hands. Yet Kaito lingered when the others retreated, his shadow long across the clean tile.
"What are you, exactly?" he asked.
Sora turned toward him, amused. "A shopkeeper."
Kaito's mouth curved, faintly—something like a smile. "Right."
Their gazes held, a moment suspended between curiosity and danger. Then Sora turned away, the jingle of his bangles the only sound in the quiet store.
When Kaito finally stepped outside, the morning sun caught on the curve of the Nexus Exchange's sign, burning white in the ash-filled sky.
> [Host, Fort Kurogane has confirmed the report. Expect further visitors within three days.]
(Perfect,) Sora thought, watching Kaito's departing figure. (Let the world come to me.)
And behind him, the silent red box pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat.
----
Dawn seeped into the ruins like watered ink, pale light tracing the edges of the shattered skyline. Inside the Nexus Exchange, everything gleamed too clean for the world outside. The air carried a faint scent of yeast and ozone.
Sora fastened the last clasp of a black lace-corset dress, the fabric hugging his slim frame before flaring slightly at the knee. Sheer stockings glimmered faintly when he crossed one leg over the other to buckle a pair of low-heeled boots. Silver bangles chimed as he tightened the ribbon at his throat. The mirror behind the counter caught the look—a shape of calm grace in a world made of dust.
> [Inventory check complete,]
the System murmured.
[Two Zombie-Attraction Boxes added. Price set: 200 points each.]
Sora arranged the translucent crimson cubes on the middle shelf. The small placard beneath them read:
Zombie-Attraction Unit
Draws undead away from a one-kilometer radius for twelve hours. Handle with care.
He stepped back to study the display—two faintly glowing boxes beside rows of bread and water bottles. For a moment, the surreal blend of domestic order and apocalypse made him smile.
> [Foot traffic remains low, Host. Rumor propagation increasing by 37 percent across nearby territories.]
"Good," Sora said softly, wiping an invisible speck from the counter. "Let them talk."
Outside, a wind carried distant voices—scavengers, traders, perhaps new customers. He poured himself a glass of water, savoring the rare clarity, and leaned against the counter as if waiting for a play to begin.
---
Fort Kurogane
The briefing room of Fort Kurogane smelled of oil, gunmetal, and stale coffee. A battered flag hung behind the commander's desk, its edges scorched from an old siege.
Ren Ichihara stood at attention before the long table. Ten officers sat around it, their faces drawn tight. He had been speaking for nearly half an hour, describing the store—the Nexus Exchange—and the strange merchant who ran it.
"Bread," muttered a logistics officer. "You're telling me actual, pre-Collapse bread."
Ren's gaze didn't waver. "I watched my unit eat it. The taste, the texture—it was real. So was the water. She trades through a system that scans valuables for 'points.' She called herself a merchant, nothing more."
The room erupted in half-muttered arguments: miracle, trap, hallucination.
Ren waited until the noise dulled, then added quietly, "she also sells a red cube labeled Zombie-Attraction Unit."
That silenced the table.
The commander—a thick-shouldered man with silver streaking his hair—leaned forward. "Do you believe it's hostile?"
Ren considered. "Not exactly. Controlled. Whatever that place is, it enforces its own rules."