The camp did not settle quietly. It settled like two storms deciding to share the same horizon.
Snow Team's fire burned steady between the broken brick shells of two storefronts. Meat sizzled. Ivan had pulled iron racks from Victor's space. No ceremony. Vegetables roasted in foil, fragrant with the dried herbs Ash insisted on keeping months ago. Fruit, sliced and bright, sat in a shallow metal tray. Juice glistened in the firelight. It looked like something from another world.
Across cracked pavement, Emma's group crouched close to a small flame that fought the wind, their faces shadowed with hunger and worry. The food scraped their teeth and mocked their emptiness, dented cans, stale ration bars, old jerky that snapped instead of bent.
The contrast was not subtle.
It was not accidental.
