The trap was almost elegant.
A half-burnt food crate. A medical satchel propped open just enough to let its glint catch the dying light. Nearby, a fake body—mannequin head and torso, dressed in tattered cargo gear. And one boot, bloodied just enough to suggest a survivor died fleeing the scene.
Everything was arranged just beyond the northern fence line, just far enough outside the perimeter that Logan's turret wouldn't immediately fire if someone passed by.
Just close enough that someone greedy would think it was worth the risk.
Chris watched the scene through binoculars, crouched low on the roof's catwalk.
"This is the part where we sit for eight hours?"
"This is the part where we wait," Logan replied, lying prone beside him with his scoped bow. "Not the same thing."
Chris scoffed, but didn't argue.
The drone had already confirmed three footprints wandering nearby on the last day, scouting patterns and never committing to direct contact. That was enough to tell Logan that Haven wasn't just broadcasting for fun.
They were watching, too.
It was only a matter of time before they came for what they believed belonged to everyone.
That was the difference.
Logan didn't believe in everyone.
Just survival.
And survival started with making sure anyone who crossed your line regretted it.
Time passed.
The sky remained blood-hued, but the wind cooled. Ash drifted like feathers from a forgotten sky.
Then Chris stiffened.
"Movement. Southeast path. Tall one. Long coat. Scoped rifle."
Logan turned the bow toward the target, sighting in with practiced slowness.
The man approached cautiously, alone. He wore a military-grade gas mask and camouflage armor patched with scrap metal. He crouched low, checking the area, then crept toward the bait crate with professional calm.
"Disciplined," Logan muttered. "Not a scavenger."
Chris nodded. "Trained. Not looting. He's checking for traps."
The man paused near the satchel, nudged it with the barrel of his rifle, and then rechecked his surroundings. His eyes—black lenses behind the mask—swept toward Logan's direction and kept going.
Then he knelt and opened the bag.
Inside was exactly what they wanted him to find: clean rations, a marked map, and a worn radio.
As soon as his fingers touched the map, the trap triggered.
TRIPWIRE: ACTIVE
A steel tension line snapped up from beneath the dirt, wrapping tight around the man's boot and dragging him backward across the clearing. His weapon flew from his hands as he slammed into the ground, kicking, shouting—
A second later, Logan was on his feet, vaulting the side railing.
Chris followed without a word.
By the time they reached him, the man had stopped struggling.
He stared up through the mask, breathing hard. The black plastic lenses made him look more machine than man.
Logan stood over him, expression like iron.
"Tell me your name."
The man didn't speak.
So Logan knelt and drove the tip of his knife straight into the man's shoulder, just enough to pierce muscle. The man screamed behind the mask.
Chris winced.
Logan didn't.
"Name."
"L-Luka!" the man choked.
"Callsign?"
The man glared.
Logan twisted the blade.
"Bravo-Four."
Chris took a few steps back, watching the treeline.
"Logan," he said quietly. "We should move him. Someone might've heard that scream."
Logan pulled the knife free. "Help me drag him."
They took him inside the north entry hatch, into a side room not yet wired for security. It was concrete, with no light or cameras—just metal hooks along the wall and an old locker turned into a supply cache.
Logan tossed him into a chair and zip-cuffed his wrists behind his back.
The man's mask was still on.
Chris looked at Logan.
"What now?"
Logan unscrewed the mask and yanked it free.
Beneath it, Luka was in his late twenties. Blond buzz cut. Bloodied teeth. One eye was already swelling shut.
And something else.
A tattoo behind his left ear—half-concealed beneath sweat and grime.
A gear. Stylized. Familiar.
Chris leaned in. "That's Haven's crest."
Logan's voice was calm. Too calm.
"You're not just a scavenger."
Luka coughed up blood and spat it on the floor.
"I'm a reclaimer," he sneered. "You're holding property that belongs to the Collective. We were sent to catalog the area and report any unauthorized strongholds."
"Unauthorized," Logan echoed. "You mean alive."
"You're wasting effort. We're going to absorb this zone by week's end."
Chris frowned. "Absorb?"
Logan turned to the table and opened a System screen.
Faction Alert: Outside Entity EngagedStatus: DetainedName: Luka – Haven ReclaimerAccessing Intel Profile...Role: Recon / PropagandaIntel Potential: HIGH
A new prompt blinked.
Interrogation Protocol AvailableMethod: Coercion / Diplomacy / Mind-Sync (Locked)Proceed?
Logan selected Coercion.
The lights in the room dimmed slightly.
Chris stepped back as a faint pulse of heat filled the air. The System wasn't just cataloging the moment—it was shaping it.
Luka's eyes widened as a static hum settled into his skull.
"What the—what the fuck is this?!"
Logan leaned in.
"You're going to tell me everything."