The clearing was alive with chaos, the survivors shouting over one another, their voices raw with frustration and fear. The air was thick with tension, the scent of smoke and sweat mingling with the bitter tang of desperation.

Megan stood in the center, her hands raised in a futile attempt to calm the crowd, but the group was beyond reason. Their eyes burned with desperation, their faces twisted in anger and resentment, their voices clashing in a cacophony of demands.

One of the men, a burly figure with a scruffy beard and wild eyes, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. "Officer Megan!" he shouted, his tone demanding, accusatory.

"We think it's not appropriate for you to hold two guns while the rest of us are defenseless!" His finger jabbed toward her, his face flushed with rage. "You have to give one for our safety! What if we're attacked? What if something happens? We need a way to protect ourselves!"

The others picked up the chant, their voices rising in a chorus of frustration. "Officer!" a woman shouted, her voice shaking with fear. "He's right!" She clutched her bowl of mushroom broth, her knuckles white. "We can't just sit here helpless while that bastard flaunts his power!"

"Yeah!" another man yelled, his face twisted in anger. "We deserve to feel safe too!"

Megan stood there, dumbfounded, her eyes darting between the crowd and the gun at her waist. She hadn't expected this—hadn't expected them to turn on her like this, to corner her with demands she couldn't refuse. Her voice wavered, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke.

"But who should I give the gun to?" she asked, her tone pleading for reason, for logic. "Do any of you have experience in shooting? Because if someone mishandles it, we could all be in danger!"

The clearing fell into a momentary silence, the survivors exchanging glances, murmuring among themselves. Some shrugged, others looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Then, Paul stepped forward, his voice calm, authoritative, cutting through the tension.

"Officer Megan..." he said, his tone firm, steady. "I was a military doctor." His eyes met hers, unyielding, confident. "I'm trained in handling firearms. I know how to use one safely."

Megan hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the crowd, searching for any sign of dissent. "Do any of you have objections to him having the gun?" she asked, her voice strained, hopeful that someone would speak up, give her a reason to refuse.

But the group remained silent. Some nodded reluctantly, others shrugged, but no one spoke against Paul. Their agreement was reluctant, but it was final.

Megan exhaled, her shoulders slumping under the weight of their demands. She reached for the gun she had taken from Lisa earlier, her fingers brushing the cold metal before handing it to Paul.

"Here..." she murmured, her voice barely audible over the murmurs of the crowd. "But use it responsibly, Paul. Only in self-defense. Only if it's absolutely necessary."

Paul took the gun, his grip firm, his expression unreadable. He nodded at Megan, a small, reassuring gesture, before turning to the crowd, his voice steady, commanding. "I won't let you down." His eyes swept over them, firm, determined. "But remember—this is a last resort. We don't want to escalate violence unless we have to."

The survivors murmured among themselves, some nodding in approval, others still glaring at me, their eyes burning with resentment. But for now, the tension eased, and the immediate threat of mutiny subsided. They turned away, muttering among themselves, some relieved, others still seething.

Megan turned to me, her face twisted in frustration, her voice low, accusatory. "You enjoy this, don't you?" she hissed, her eyes burning into mine. "You love seeing us like this—desperate, divided."

I shrugged, taking another bite of pizza, my smile cold, amused. "I enjoy reality, Megan." My tone was light, but my eyes were cold, unyielding. "And right now, this is reality." I gestured to the crowd, to Paul holding the gun, to the fear and distrust lingering in the air. "You all chose this. Not me."

Megan's hands clenched, her voice shaking with rage. "We chose survival."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "No, Megan." My voice was smooth, mocking. "You chose weakness." I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "And weakness always gets exploited."

The firelight flickered across Megan's face, casting her fury in sharp relief. Her cheeks burned, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. "You're sick," she spat, her voice shaking—not with fear, but with the kind of rage that comes from being outmaneuvered. Again.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my drink, the ice clinking against the glass. My smirk never wavered. "And you're naive," I replied, my tone smooth as poisoned honey. "But don't worry, Megan." I leaned in just enough to make her flinch, my voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "Soon, you'll learn."

Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood. For a heartbeat, I thought she might lunge. Instead, she turned on her heel, her spine rigid with humiliation. "You'll regret this," she hissed over her shoulder, the words trembling with the weight of a promise.

I watched her storm into the shadows, the firelight swallowing her silhouette. My smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened. "Oh, Megan..." I murmured, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, "I never do."

The clearing around us seemed to exhale, the survivors exchanging uneasy glances. Some looked relieved, as if a storm had passed. Others still bristled, their anger simmering just beneath the surface. But the tension wasn't over. It never was.

I ignored them all.

Angela was still beside me, her presence warm and solid. I pulled her closer, my arm wrapping around her shoulders, my fingers tracing idle patterns along her arm. She didn't pull away. She never did.

The weight of her body against mine was intoxicating, the softness of her breath a lullaby that drowned out the noise of the world.

The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across her skin. I let my gaze linger on the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly as my fingers brushed the hem of her shirt. The whispers of the crowd faded into the background, the crackling of the fire the only sound that mattered.

I shifted, letting my head rest against her, my ear pressed to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. The warmth of her body seeped into me, her scent wrapping around my senses like a spell. I could feel the softness of her skin beneath the fabric, the gentle curve of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.

My eyes grew heavy, my body relaxing into the comfort of her presence. The world could burn around us, but in that moment, there was only Angela. Only the rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her skin, the way her body molded against mine.

I let myself drift, my breath evening out, my muscles uncoiling. My head grew heavier, my cheek resting against the soft swell of her chest. The fabric of her shirt was thin, barely a barrier between my skin and hers. I could feel the heat of her, the steady thrum of her pulse beneath my ear.

And then, there was nothing but the darkness of sleep.

I didn't dream. I never did.

But when I woke, the fabric beneath my cheek was damp, a thin trail of drool marking my claim. Angela stirred slightly, her fingers brushing through my hair, her voice a sleep-rough murmur. "You're disgusting."

I didn't move. Didn't apologize.

I just smiled against her skin and closed my eyes again, my arm tightening around her waist.

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