Inside the main dining hall, most of the students were already seated, trays piled high with whatever the kitchen had managed to scrape together—mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and a few odds and ends that barely counted as sides.

After days of choking down crackers and protein bars, the warm food tasted like a five-star meal.

Ethan, Chris, and Henry sat together at a corner table, each with a generous helping of mac and cheese and a scoop of mashed potatoes. Not because they were picky—because that's all that was left.

"Man," Chris said, grinning as he shoveled in another bite, "after eating dry bread for days, I didn't know mac and cheese could taste this damn good."

"Even the mashed potatoes hit different," Henry mumbled, cheeks full. "Whoever cooked this—respect."

Ethan snorted. "Don't give them too much credit. These are just boiled potatoes mashed with salt and oil. No butter, no cream. Bare minimum."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you know your way around a kitchen."

Chris chuckled. "Ethan's been cooking for himself since he was ten. He even worked part-time in a restaurant before all this."

"Oh, right," Henry said, sheepish. "Forgot about that."

Chris glanced around the hall. "Still, gotta admit—having this many people helps. When everyone pitches in, things get done fast."

Ethan nodded. "Yeah. Vivian's got a solid grip on her team. They're efficient. No wasted motion."

"I noticed that too," Henry said. "But I still think you've got the edge, Ethan."

"Same here," Chris added without hesitation. "I've never doubted you."

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Alright, enough with the ass-kissing. Eat up. Chris, once you're done, take this crystal core. We'll probably be leading the charge when we move out. Doesn't matter how many people we've got—frontline's always the bloodiest. You need to hit Tier 3 ASAP."

"Got it."

Chris nodded, then focused on demolishing the rest of his mac and cheese. Once his tray was clean, he took the crystal core Ethan handed him and swallowed it without hesitation.

It took a while—longer than usual—but eventually, Chris's body absorbed the energy completely. A faint shimmer passed over his skin, and just like that, he was Tier 3.

In the early days of the apocalypse, having two Tier 3 Awakened in one team was practically unheard of. They could crush 99% of the groups out there.

An hour passed. The dining hall quieted as people finished eating. Not a single crumb was left—plates scraped clean, trays licked dry.

Then Vivian stepped forward again, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.

"Everyone full?"

"Yeah! Thanks, Vivian!" several people shouted back.

Word had spread fast. People knew her name now—Vivian, the woman who'd killed the monsters in human skin, saved the girls, and fed everyone a real meal. She wasn't just a leader anymore. She was a symbol.

Vivian waited for the noise to settle, then continued, her tone shifting.

"I'm glad you're full. But I need to tell you something—and it's not good. That meal you just had? It was made with the last of the food in the kitchen. There's nothing left."

"What?!"

The reaction was instant. Panic rippled through the room like a shockwave.

Some had suspected it, sure. But the smell of hot food, the full trays—it had lulled them into forgetting. Into hoping.

Now, Vivian's words hit like a punch to the gut.

"If you don't believe me," she said calmly, "you're welcome to check the kitchen yourselves."

And with that, a handful of people bolted for the back, pushing through the swinging doors in a rush.

After a long while, the group that had rushed into the kitchen began to trickle back out—faces pale, expressions grim.

There wasn't a scrap left. Not even a wilted leaf. The kitchen floor was cleaner than their plates.

"Why the hell would you do this?!" someone finally shouted at Vivian, and others quickly joined in, voices rising with anger and disbelief.

Vivian didn't flinch. "That food—at best—could've been stretched into watery soup for three more days. So what? Starve slowly just to buy time? I figured one good meal was better than dragging it out. What do you think?"

"If we'd stretched it, maybe we'd have lasted long enough for rescue!" someone yelled. "You just cut off our only chance!"

The gratitude from earlier had vanished. Now, the crowd stared at her like she'd betrayed them.

"Rescue, rescue, rescue," Vivian snapped, her voice sharp. "That's all you people ever talk about. You ever think about saving yourselves?"

"What, so if no one comes, we're just supposed to give up and die?" another voice shot back.

Vivian's patience snapped. "We're heading out soon. If you want to come, figure out how to break off a table leg or find something else to use as a weapon. You'll need it. If you'd rather sit here and wait to starve, be my guest."

With that, she turned her back on them and walked over to her team, already deep in discussion.

Her words hung in the air like a slap. Around the room, people shifted uncomfortably, glancing at one another.

Truth was, most of them had already stopped believing in rescue days ago. They just hadn't admitted it—not out loud, not even to themselves. It was easier to cling to the fantasy than face the truth.

They'd been surviving on thin soup and false hope. But now, with the food gone, the illusion had shattered. Staying meant starving. There was no more buffer, no more waiting.

And now, someone was offering a way out.

It didn't take long.

The first few started flipping tables, kicking at the legs. A couple of good stomps, and the wood cracked. Others joined in, working together to break them off. The makeshift weapons weren't perfect—splintered, uneven—but they were better than nothing.

Soon, a small arsenal of table legs had been gathered. People gripped them tightly, eyes turning toward Vivian.

She looked them over and gave a nod. "Good. Looks like none of you are ready to die here. That's the first step."

"But let me be clear—this won't be easy. Once we're out there, it's going to get ugly. If you're not ready to kill a zombie, then stay behind. Otherwise, you're just dead weight."

She raised her voice. "Anyone here not ready to kill?"

"No!" came the unified shout. Faces were set, jaws clenched. They'd made their choice. No turning back now.

Vivian gave a satisfied nod and turned toward Ethan.

That's when people started to notice—really notice—how often she looked to him. How she didn't make a move without checking in first.

And suddenly, things clicked.

The decision to cook all the food, to burn through the last of their supplies in one go—that had to be his idea. He was the one who'd joked about hoarding it all for himself, wasn't he?

Now, more than a few eyes turned toward Ethan, and not kindly. Suspicion simmered beneath the surface.

Why would Vivian—who had a team of over eighty people—defer to a guy with a squad of three?

Even her own team had started to notice. The Vivian they knew—decisive, unshakable—had been different ever since this guy showed up. Less certain. Less in control.

Nate, a sharp-featured man with movie-star looks, narrowed his eyes from the edge of the group.

Time to start putting some distance between us and those three, he thought grimly.

...

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