The crowd parted like a sea of grudging rats, muttering curses under their breath as we walked through. No one dared throw a punch, no one even raised a voice above a growl. The leader was still sprawled in the dirt, blood pooling under his ear, and the rest of them seemed suddenly very interested in studying their own boots.
Mahaveer didn't holster his pistol until we were a good thirty meters past the last straggler. Only then did he glance over his shoulder at me.
"You threw the rock."
It wasn't a question.
I gave the most angelic shrug I could manage while still walking. "It was a very aerodynamic rock. Practically begged to be thrown."
Gauri snorted, then immediately winced and pressed a hand to her side. "You're lucky it wasn't a grenade, hero."
Zoey, still gripping the back of my shirt like I might bolt back and finish the job, muttered, "Next time warn me so I can at least film it. I deserve viral content for the emotional labor of restraining you."
We kept moving. The camp gates loomed ahead—tall scrap-metal walls reinforced with razor wire and spite, watchtowers bristling with rifle barrels. The late-afternoon sun turned everything the color of old rust.
Mahaveer raised a hand in the universal signal for "don't shoot us, we're the idiots you sent out." One of the sentries waved back lazily, and the smaller personnel gate groaned open just wide enough for us to slip through single-file.
Inside smelled different. Cleaner. Less despair, more cook-fires and motor oil.
People actually looked up when we passed instead of flinching away.
A stocky woman in patched fatigues—Captain something, I could never remember—strode over before we'd taken ten steps past the gate.
"Report," she barked.
Mahaveer gave the short version: fungal nest cleared, spore samples secured, casualties zero on our side, minor injuries. He left out the part where I turned a random rock into an improvised lobotomy tool. Smart man.
Captain Whatever nodded once.
"Medical's expecting Gauri. Rest of you—decon, food, sleep. In that order. Dismissed."
Gauri gave a mock salute with her good arm and limped toward the med tent. Mahaveer watched her go for a second longer than necessary, then turned to Zoey and me.
"You two. With me. Briefing room. Now."
Zoey groaned dramatically. "Can I at least shower first? I smell like regret and mushroom guts."
"Five minutes," Mahaveer said. "You stink worse than usual, so make it three."
She flipped him off without breaking stride.
The briefing room was really just a repurposed shipping container with a folding table, a couple of flickering bulbs, and a whiteboard someone had stolen from a corporate office before the world ended. Mahaveer shut the door behind us and leaned against it, arms crossed.
"Talk," he said, looking straight at me.
I blinked. "About what? The weather? It's apocalyptic. Shocking."
"About why you threw a rock at a man's skull in front of thirty witnesses who now have a vendetta and very little to lose."
I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried honesty for once. "He was about to touch her face. Like she was livestock. I… reacted."
Mahaveer studied me for a long moment. Not angry. Just tired.
"You understand that if you'd missed—or if you'd hit too hard—we'd be fighting our way out right now instead of standing here?"
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I know."
Zoey, who'd been pretending to inspect a crack in the wall, finally spoke up. "He's not wrong, though. That creep was two seconds from getting his hand bitten off by Gauri anyway. Amitesh just… sped up the process. With bonus blunt-force trauma."
Mahaveer pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're both giving me a migraine."
I raised both hands. "Look, I'm not saying I'm a saint. I'm just saying I'm an extremely well-intentioned menace."
Zoey snorted so hard she almost
choked. "That's your new tagline. Put it on a t-shirt."
Mahaveer exhaled through his teeth.
"Fine. You're both confined to camp until I say otherwise. No supply runs, no scouting, no nothing. And Amitesh—if I catch you within fifty meters of the outer perimeter with anything that can be thrown, kicked, or fired, I will personally tie you to the flagpole until the next fungal wave uses you as bait."
I saluted lazily. "Aye aye, captain buzzkill."
He pointed at the door. "Out. Shower. Eat. Sleep. And if either of you causes one more international incident before dawn, I'm feeding you to the mushrooms myself."
Zoey grabbed my elbow and started towing me toward the exit before I could reply with something even stupider.
As the door clanged shut behind us, she leaned in close and whispered, "You're buying me dinner for the next week to make up for the heart attack you almost gave me."
I grinned. "Deal. But only if they're serving mystery stew again. Romance demands sacrifice."
She elbowed me in the ribs—hard—but she was smiling.
Somewhere behind us, the sun finally dropped below the wall.
The camp lights flickered on one by one.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I thought maybe—just maybe—we might actually survive the night.
(But I still kept an eye out for conveniently aerodynamic rocks.)
The showerhead sputtered like it was personally offended by my existence, but the cold hit like a slap I desperately needed. Water sluiced over my shoulders, down my back, carrying away the last clinging stink of mushroom spores, dried blood, and the general aroma of "we almost died again today."
Cold showers were the best kind of punishment—sharp enough to wake every nerve, merciful enough not to actually kill you. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it pound against my skull until my teeth chattered and my thoughts finally stopped screaming.
I should cut my hair. It was getting long enough to tangle in gear straps and catch on every damn branch we passed. And maybe, just maybe, after that I'd sneak out to the old jewellery district, find one of those abandoned shops with the smashed display cases, and help myself to whatever shiny nonsense the world had left behind. A little looting never hurt morale.
I killed the water, toweled off roughly, and pulled on the spare set of clothes someone had left folded on the bench—faded black cargo pants, a plain grey long-sleeve that actually smelled like laundry soap instead of despair. Small miracles.
When I stepped outside the shower block, Zoey was leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting to judge me since the moment I walked in.
"Now you're looking something like a human," she announced, giving me an exaggerated once-over. "I was starting to worry the mushrooms had permanently claimed you."
I ran a hand through my still-damp hair. "I'll take that as a compliment. High praise coming from someone who smells like regret and gun oil twenty-four-seven."
She smirked. "So what now, hero? You've got no appetite and zero plans except collapsing face-first into a cot?"
"Pretty much. Sleep is calling my name. Loudly."
Zoey's eyes lit up with predatory glee. "Oh, perfect. Then hand over your dinner ration. I'm starving and you're basically a walking corpse anyway."
Before I could protest, she hooked two fingers through the sleeve of my shirt and started towing me across the compound like a reluctant puppy.
We joined the end of the dinner line—long, snaking, patient. People shuffled forward holding dented metal plates, the clatter of ladles against steel the only soundtrack. Fifteen minutes of standing in companionable silence later, we reached the serving table.
A bored cook dolloped something thick and brownish onto my plate—stew, maybe, or gravy pretending to be food—then added a chunk of flatbread, a few boiled potatoes, and one lonely, slightly wilted carrot.
Zoey immediately claimed my plate with the speed of someone who'd practiced this move.
I raised an eyebrow. "You're really doing this."
"Sharing is caring," she said sweetly, already cradling both trays like war trophies.
We found a spot at one of the long communal tables—rickety planks bolted to metal frames—and sat. I folded my arms on the wood, dropped my forehead onto them, and let gravity do the rest. Sleep was so close I could taste it.
"Hey." Zoey's voice cut through the fog. "At least eat something. Going to bed on an empty stomach is how you wake up feeling like roadkill."
Something small and orange sailed through the air and bounced off my forearm.
I lifted my head just enough to glare at the offending carrot now rolling innocently across the table.
"You don't like carrots, do you?" I asked, voice flat.
Zoey shrugged, already tearing into the flatbread. "I like them fine. This one's just… bitter. Like it's judging me personally. So do me a solid and eat it for me? Pretty please?"
I stared at the carrot. It stared back—pale, slightly wrinkled, radiating quiet vegetable resentment.
I sighed the sigh of a man who knew he was losing this battle before it even started.
"Fine. But only because I'm too tired to argue with you about root vegetables."
I picked it up, snapped it in half with more force than necessary, and shoved one piece into my mouth.
It was, indeed, bitter.
Zoey beamed like she'd won the lottery.
"You're the best fake boyfriend ever," she said around a mouthful of stew.
I chewed slowly, swallowed, then pointed the remaining half at her like a tiny orange sword.
"Call me that again and I'm feeding this to you through your nose."
She laughed—bright, reckless, the kind of sound that felt dangerous in a world that had mostly forgotten how to make it.
"Deal. But you're still eating the rest."
I groaned, dropped my head back onto my arms, and resigned myself to my fate.
One more bite.
One more night.
One more ridiculous, carrot-flavored reason to keep going tomorrow.
The carrot was gone—bitter to the last crunch—and I was finally starting to feel the food settle instead of just sitting like a rock in my gut. Zoey was still working through both plates with the focus of someone who'd once survived on ration bars and spite for three weeks straight.
I leaned back on the bench, stretching my arms until my shoulders popped.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice casual, "about that boyfriend thing earlier…"
Zoey paused mid-bite, flatbread hovering near her mouth. She raised one eyebrow, slow and dangerous.
"Do you have any?" I finished.
She lowered the bread. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"No. Why?" She leaned forward just enough to make the table creak. "Want to be one?"
I snorted. "Nah. I have zero interest in older women."
Zoey's eyes narrowed to slits. She set the flatbread down with exaggerated care, like she was laying a grenade on the table.
"Excuse me?" Her voice went dangerously sweet. "Who exactly are you calling 'older woman,' huh? This pretty lady right here?"
I couldn't help the grin. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven," she shot back without missing a beat.
Oh. That was quick.
I did the math in my head—simple, cruel, teenage math. "I'm twenty. See? You're older."
Zoey stared at me for a solid three seconds, then barked a laugh that turned a few heads at the next table.
"Age is just a number, kid."
I waved a hand like I was dismissing the entire concept of chronology. "Well, I'm not arguing that topic anymore. Besides—" I jerked my chin toward the far end of the mess hall, where a familiar broad-shouldered figure in fatigues was barking orders at a couple of rookies.
"Finish quickly. I want to see that old CS."
Zoey blinked. "CS?"
"Old Captain Singh," I said, deadpan.
She stared at me another second—then burst out laughing again, loud enough this time that the rookies glanced over nervously. She slapped the table once, hard, rattling both empty plates.
"My my," she wheezed, wiping at the corner of one eye, "you are good at giving nicknames. I'm stealing that one. 'Old CS.' It's perfect. He's gonna hate it."
I shrugged, already pushing to my feet.
"He's earned it. Man's been glaring at me like I personally insulted his mustache since the day I got here."
Zoey stood too, stretching with a groan that sounded half exhaustion, half contentment. "You're not wrong. Come on, menace. Let's go pay our respects to Old CS before he decides to assign us latrine duty for breathing too loud."
We wove through the crowded tables, dodging elbows and stray boots.
Captain Singh spotted us coming from across the hall—his eyes narrowed instantly, the way they always did when he saw me. Like he was mentally calculating exactly how much paperwork my continued existence was costing him.
He crossed his arms as we stopped in front of him.
"Problem?" he rumbled.
Zoey flashed her brightest, most innocent smile. "None at all, sir. Amitesh here was just saying how much he admires your… leadership."
I shot her a look that promised revenge.
Captain Singh grunted. "Flattery won't get you out of tomorrow's perimeter patrol."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Old CS," I said cheerfully.
The nickname landed like a brick through a window.
Zoey had to turn away and pretend to cough. Captain Singh's left eye twitched—once, violently.
"You got something to say, boy?" he asked, voice low and lethal.
I met his stare, grin still in place. "Just that you look well-rested, sir. Must be all that quality time yelling at rookies."
For a heartbeat I thought he might actually deck me.
Instead he exhaled through his nose like a bull deciding murder wasn't worth the paperwork.
"Get out of my sight," he said. "Both of you. And if I hear that nickname again, you're both on mushroom-spore
cleanup for a month."
Zoey saluted sharply—too sharply—then grabbed my sleeve and started dragging me away before I could reply.
We made it halfway across the mess hall before she lost it completely, doubling over with silent, shaking laughter.
"You," she gasped, "are actually insane."
I shrugged, still grinning. "He didn't hit me. That's basically a win."
Zoey straightened, wiping her eyes again. "You're going to get us both killed one day. And I'm going to haunt you for it."
"Worth it," I said. "Old CS's face was priceless."
She looped her arm through mine—casual, easy, like it was nothing—and steered us toward the barracks.
"Come on, twenty-year-old. Let's go find you a cot before you start nicknaming the entire command staff."
Behind us, I swear I heard Captain Singh mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "fucking kids."
I didn't argue.
Some nights, surviving the apocalypse felt almost… normal.
Almost.
Zoey finally released my arm once we were out of the mess hall and into the cooler night air of the compound. The barracks blocks rose around us like mismatched teeth—some old apartment towers patched with shipping containers and corrugated steel, others half-collapsed skeletons still stubbornly standing.
I stopped under one of the flickering sodium lamps and turned to her. "So… where do I live? Crash in the common bunk room again? Last time some guy snored like a dying chainsaw the whole night."
Zoey held up a finger. "Just a second."
She dug into the side pocket of her cargo pants, fished around for a moment, then pulled out a small, folded scrap of paper. It looked like it had been torn from the corner of a supply manifest—creased, slightly greasy, but legible.
She unfolded it with a flourish and held it out to me like she was presenting a winning lottery ticket.
"Building No. 3," she read aloud, tapping each word with her finger for emphasis. "Floor 25. Room 298."
I stared at the paper, then at her.
"Wow. Amazing address." My voice came out completely deadpan. "Very specific. Very… luxurious. Do they serve champagne on floor 25, or is it just the usual mystery stew delivery?"
Zoey snorted and shoved the paper into my hand. "It's one of the higher floors in Tower C—the old residential block they reinforced last year. Better view, fewer leaks, and the elevators actually work most days. You're not in the cattle-pen dorms anymore, princess."
I turned the scrap over like I was checking for hidden fine print. "How'd you swing this? Bribe someone? Blackmail Old CS? Sleep with the quartermaster?"
She punched my shoulder—light, but pointed. "I asked nicely. And maybe implied that if they stuck you back in the snore barracks, you'd start a one-man revolution with your rock-throwing skills. You're welcome."
I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my own pocket. "Floor 25, huh?
That's… high up. You sure the building won't decide to collapse in the middle of the night? I've seen the cracks on the lower levels."
"Everything's cracked," she said with a shrug. "But this one's got extra bracing. And if it falls, at least the view on the way down will be spectacular."
"Comforting." I glanced toward the silhouette of Building 3 looming against the dark sky—twenty-five stories of patched concrete and jury-rigged lights twinkling here and there like someone had stapled stars to it. "You coming up to make sure I don't get lost? Or murdered by my new roommate?"
Zoey hesitated for half a second—long enough that I noticed—then shook her head. "Nah. My bunk's in Block 4, ground floor. Closer to the armory in case shit hits the fan at 3 a.m. You'll be fine. Just don't throw any rocks at your neighbors if they snore."
I gave her a mock salute. "No promises. But I'll try to limit myself to pillows."
She rolled her eyes, but there was a small, real smile tugging at her mouth now. "Get some actual sleep, twenty-year-old. Tomorrow's perimeter patrol starts at dawn, and Old CS already has your name on the roster. Don't make me drag you out of bed."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied cheerfully.
Zoey gave my shoulder one last squeeze—quick, almost absentminded—then turned and started walking toward her own block.
"Hey," I called after her.
She paused, half-turned.
"Thanks. For the room. And the carrot. And… you know. The general chaos management."
She waved a hand without looking back.
"Don't get sappy on me now. Go claim your penthouse before someone else squats in it."
I watched her disappear around the corner, then looked up at Building 3 again.
Floor 25. Room 298.
It wasn't much—just a number on a scrap of paper—but in a world where tomorrow wasn't guaranteed, it felt strangely like winning something.
I started walking.
The night air smelled like diesel, distant cook-fires, and the faint metallic tang of rain that never quite fell.
For once, I didn't mind the climb.
stepped into the dim lobby of Building 3, the air thick with the smell of old concrete dust and something faintly metallic, like rusting rebar. The elevator doors stood half-open, one panel dented inward as if someone had once tried to pry them apart with a crowbar and given up halfway.
I hit the call button anyway—habit more than hope.
Nothing happened.
A dry, raspy voice cut through the quiet from my left.
"What are you doing, kid?"
I turned. An old woman—tiny, wrapped in three mismatched cardigans, leaning on a walking stick that looked like it had once been part of a bed frame—was glaring at me from the shadows near the stairwell door. Her eyes were sharp behind thick glasses, the kind that made you feel like she'd already decided you were an idiot.
"Calling the lift," I said, gesturing at the panel like it might suddenly spring to life out of embarrassment.
She gave me the kind of look usually reserved for people who'd just confessed to kicking puppies.
"Are you new here? That thing hasn't worked in a whole year."
I stared at the button for a second longer, then let my hand drop.
Oh. So Zoey told a lie. Well… it was expected.
"Okay. Thanks, aunty."
She snorted—half amusement, half disdain—and shuffled toward the stairwell door without another word.
I sighed, pushed open the heavy metal fire door, and started up.
Twenty-five floors.
By floor seven my thighs were already complaining.
By floor twelve I was counting every single step out loud like a masochistic mantra.
By floor nineteen my lungs felt like they'd been replaced with wet rags, and my calves were staging a full mutiny.
When I finally reached the twenty-fifth-floor landing, my legs were trembling like I'd just run a marathon in flip-flops. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I leaned against the wall for a full thirty seconds, breathing like I'd been drowning.
Then I straightened, found Room 298—third door down the corridor—and pushed the key Zoey had slipped me into the lock.
It turned with a satisfying click.
The door swung open on surprisingly quiet hinges.
Inside: small. One room, really. A narrow bed shoved against one wall, a tiny table with two mismatched chairs, a single bulb hanging naked from the ceiling. A little dirty—dust on the windowsill, a faint mildew scent—but clean enough. No bloodstains, no obvious fungal growth creeping up the corners. In this world, that counted as luxury.
I did the new-home checklist on autopilot.
Bathroom first: faucet sputtered, then coughed up brownish water that slowly cleared. Good enough.
Window next: I cranked the handle. It opened with a groan. The view hit me like a punch—endless sprawl of ruined city under a bruised purple sky, distant camp lights flickering like dying fireflies, the dark line of the perimeter wall barely visible. High enough that the screams and gunshots felt distant. Almost peaceful.
Security check: I opened and closed the door three times, testing the lock, the chain, the way the frame sat solid in the jamb. No give. Solid.
Finally, I kicked off my boots, didn't bother with anything else, and threw myself face-down onto the mattress.
It creaked. It smelled faintly of old laundry soap and someone else's life.
I rolled onto my back, stared at the cracked ceiling, and muttered into the quiet.
"Good night, Raktbeej."
From the corner of the room—where the shadows were thickest—a low, amused rumble answered.
"Good night, mushroom boy."
I froze for half a second.
The voice was familiar now. Deep, gravelly, edged with something that wasn't quite human anymore. Raktbeej. The thing that had hitched a ride in my head after that last nest-clearing run. Not quite a parasite, not quite a symbiote—just… there. Talking when it felt like it. Mostly quiet. Mostly.
I turned my head toward the darkness.
"Nice nickname," I said dryly. "But when it's coming from you, I don't like it."
A soft chuckle rolled through my skull like distant thunder.
"Too bad. It suits you. You smell like spores half the time anyway."
I flipped him off in the general direction of the corner, even though there was nothing visible to aim at.
"Shut up and let me sleep. I just climbed twenty-five floors because Zoey decided elevators are optional."
"Should've thrown a rock at the lift button. Might've fixed it."
I groaned into the pillow. "Go haunt someone else."
"No fun in that," the voice murmured, already fading like smoke. "Sleep tight, mushroom boy. Try not to dream about carrots."
The room went quiet again.
Just the low hum of the camp generator somewhere far below, the occasional creak of the building settling, wind whistling past the open window.
I closed my eyes.
Twenty-five floors.
A bed that didn't smell like death.
A voice in my head that, annoyingly, wasn't trying to kill me tonight.
And tomorrow—perimeter patrol at dawn, courtesy of Old CS.
I pulled the thin blanket over my head.
For once, the darkness felt almost kind.
Almost.
***
Somewhere on the other side of the city, in a low-lit chamber that smelled faintly of antiseptic and crushed herbs, a woman in a crisp white coat leaned over her patient.
Priyanka secured the final loop of bandage with practiced fingers, then stepped back to survey her work.
"There," she said softly, almost to herself. "You're all right now."
Gauri lay still for a moment, testing the fresh dressing against the pull of her ribs. The sting had dulled to a distant throb.
Priyanka offered a small, professional smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"The wound was never deep. Consider yourself fortunate. Once the cultivation grass settles in your system, the last of the inflammation will vanish. You'll be whole again—inside and out."
Gauri nodded once, swung her legs over the edge of the narrow cot, and stood. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She did not thank the doctor aloud; gratitude, in this place, was sometimes better left unspoken.
Outside the room, Mahaveer waited.
He leaned against the wall with the loose, patient posture of someone accustomed to long vigils. The corridor light carved sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones. When he saw her emerge, something in his shoulders eased.
"How are you feeling now?" His voice was low, careful.
"Pretty fine," Gauri answered. The words came out lighter than she intended, almost flippant. She caught herself and added, more quietly, "Really. It's… manageable."
Mahaveer studied her for a heartbeat longer, then reached into the pocket of his worn jacket. He produced a small silver packet of chewing gum and held it out.
"Here. Take it."
Gauri raised an eyebrow.
"Your mother will raise seven kinds of hell if she catches even a trace of cigarette smoke on you," he explained, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And I'm not in the mood to be collateral damage today."
She accepted the gum without argument, peeled the wrapper, and slipped a piece between her lips. The sharp burst of mint spread across her tongue, chasing away the lingering metallic taste of blood and fear.
They stood there in the dim corridor, two silhouettes against the slowly brightening world beyond the windows, saying nothing more.
***
Far across the sleeping city, while the sky still clung to the bruised purple of pre-dawn, Amitesh woke—not to the polite trill of an alarm, nor to the soft knock of a servant, nor even to the distant clamor of morning traffic.
The sound came from within.
A deep, resonant vibration, like a second heartbeat thrumming against his sternum.
Hey. Amitesh. Wake up. It's early morning.
Raktbeej's voice rolled through his ribcage, amused and unhurried.
Amitesh scowled, drove a fist against his own chest as though he could silence the intruder with brute force.
"I know that, you idiot," he growled into the empty room. "And why the hell are you playing alarm clock now?"
The presence inside him seemed to stretch, cat-like, luxuriantly unbothered.
I never sleep, Raktbeej replied, the words carrying the faintest echo of a chuckle. So I wait. Patiently. For the exact right moment to remind you that the day has begun—whether you like it or not.
Amitesh exhaled through his teeth, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat there in the dark for a long moment, listening to the twin rhythms inside his body: one mortal, one ancient, both stubborn, both refusing to be ignored.
Outside, the first thin line of gray was beginning to bleed along the horizon.
Another day had arrived, whether he was ready for it or not.