The sun hung low in the grey afternoon sky, its light filtered through a thick veil of dust and distant smoke. The walk from Blue Angel Café had been quiet, but tension buzzed beneath each step. Henry led the trio through deserted streets, map in hand and his voice steady as he answered their cautious questions.
"The Vipers operate here," he said, pointing as they passed a collapsed streetlamp. "This is Cobra's territory. Like I told you, the man's no saint, but he's the closest thing we've got to order around here. And in this world, order means survival."
Sammy didn't look convinced. Her grip on her bag had grown tighter the closer they got.
Henry tried to reassure her. "Look, if I thought you'd be in danger, I wouldn't have brought you. Cobra's intense, yeah, but he's fair. He believes in rules, structure. You might not like his methods, but you'll respect the results."
"Respect is earned," Sammy muttered, her voice flat.
Eventually, the Vipers' base came into view—an old municipal building now fortified with salvaged steel, scavenged panels, and barbed wire. Watchmen stood on elevated ledges with scoped rifles, their silhouettes sharp against the afternoon sun.
Maarg looked around quietly. Jack let out a low whistle. "Well… this is something."
They entered through a checkpoint, where Henry gave a brief word to the guards, and the group was waved through. Inside, the compound was busy—people moved with purpose, fixing weapons, checking supplies, even setting up makeshift medical tents. Children played in a roped-off courtyard while a few women did laundry in silence.
It was a community.
Sammy, however, didn't let her guard down for a second.
As they made their way toward the central hall, a voice cut through the murmur of work and chatter.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
They turned to see a boy, maybe a year older than Jack. His pink mohawk stood tall and ridiculous, like a cotton candy flame against the grime of the apocalypse. He leaned casually against a rusted pillar, smirking at Sammy with the confidence of someone who had never been told "no" and probably needed to be—badly.
"Hey there, angel face," he said, walking toward her with a swing in his step. "Did it hurt when you fell… from the bunker of heaven?"
Sammy stared at him.
"Because you must be a survivor from paradise," he added with a wink, "and damn, I wouldn't mind being quarantined with you."
Jack's jaw tensed. "Seriously?"
Maarg rolled his eyes. "This guy."
The boy stepped closer, flashing what he probably thought was a charming smile. "You know, if you're looking for someone to keep you warm at night, I've got a spare sleeping bag. We could unzip it and—"
"Try that again and I'll zip your mouth shut with your own intestines," Sammy said coldly, not missing a beat.
The boy froze mid-smirk, visibly unsure whether to laugh or back away. But he didn't get the chance to choose.
A powerful voice sliced through the air.
"Andrew."
Everyone turned.
Descending from a high walkway was a man whose presence was impossible to ignore. He wore an olive green three-piece suit, the coat casually draped over his shoulders like a cape. His dyed black hair was slicked back, silver strands peppering his temples with dignity. A neatly trimmed French beard traced his jawline, and the sharp lines of his cheekbones made him look like a wolf in command of his pack.
Cobra.
"Apologize," he ordered, his voice low but thunderous.
Andrew's smirk died on the spot. His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. "S-sorry. Just joking around."
"No one's laughing," Cobra said, gaze sharp as broken glass.
Andrew lowered his head and quickly backed off, muttering another apology before disappearing around a corner.
The tension hung in the air like smoke until Cobra turned to the trio, his expression shifting into something more composed—businesslike.
"You must be the ones Henry mentioned," he said. "I'm Cobra. Welcome."
Jack gave a small nod. "Nice entrance."
Cobra smirked. "Timing is everything."
He extended a hand to Maarg, then to Jack. Sammy didn't shake his hand, but Cobra didn't seem offended. If anything, he looked intrigued.
"I appreciate you hearing me out," he said. "Come. We've got things to discuss."
As they followed him into the inner building, Jack whispered to Maarg, "You were right. He's 100% mafia boss energy."
Sammy muttered, "And Andrew's 100% walking regret."
Maarg just kept walking, but for the first time in a while, a faint smile touched his lips.
The room they were led into looked like a war-room masquerading as a luxury lounge—dimly lit with repurposed office lights, a vintage map of the city spread across a large table, a bottle of whiskey and three untouched glasses sitting beside it. Cobra leaned against the table like it was his throne, the weight of the room tilting around him.
"You already know why you're here," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, each word dipped in restraint and calculation. "My wife, Carla… she was taken."
The flicker of something raw and real—anguish, maybe—passed across his face, but it vanished so quickly it could've been imagined.
"By the man-eaters," he continued. "A group of twisted degenerates that used to be people. Now? Nothing but cannibal scum."
Maarg's shoulders tensed. Jack stood with arms crossed. Sammy remained stone still.
Cobra gave a humorless chuckle and turned to face the map. "I would have gone myself… but I can't afford to leave this place in the hands of my incompetent son."
His voice sharpened with bitterness.
Then he turned back, his gaze settling on Sammy.
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly softer. "If Andrew made you uncomfortable earlier… I'll discipline him. You have my word." He gave her a tight, apologetic smile. "He doesn't listen to me anyway. Only his mother."
There was something in the way he said it, something that soured the air—something in the deliberate way he licked his lips right after, as if the apology was just a formality and his focus had already shifted.
Sammy's eyes narrowed. She said nothing, but Jack took half a step forward before Maarg subtly placed a hand on his arm. Not now.
"Anyway," Cobra went on with a shrug, brushing the tension away like dust off his expensive coat, "we're getting off topic."
He stepped closer, his eyes locked on Maarg now.
"Bring my wife back… and I promise you, I can give you anything you want."
His voice was velvet and smoke. Dangerous and convincing.
"You look like you could use better weapons," he said, his eyes flicking toward their worn bags, their makeshift gear. "And a good meal, maybe some peace of mind. Security. A place where no one's trying to eat you or rob you in your sleep."
He reached down, opening a drawer and pulling out a polished handgun—sleek, pristine, and gleaming like it had never seen blood.
"Help me… and this? And a hundred more like it? Yours."
Maarg said nothing at first. Jack blinked. Sammy's jaw clenched.
"So," Cobra finished, lifting the glass of whiskey to his lips. "What do you say?"
Silence.
Then Maarg finally answered, "Give us some time. We'll talk."
Cobra nodded once, respectful but knowing. "Of course. Just remember—every hour wasted might be an hour she's still in their hands… or worse."
He turned his back to them and raised his glass.
"To better alliances in darker times."