In a dilapidated building far from Lyerin's recent struggle, seven people gathered in a dimly lit room, one could see their faces were tense and their eyes were wild with desperation.
The stench of sweat and fear hung heavy in the air as they faced each other, hands trembling on the triggers of their guns.
The variety of firearms reflected their scattered pasts, each one clinging to their weapon as if it were their last shred of hope.
On the far side, a man in a dirty, tattered coat held a rusty old shotgun, its barrel worn but still deadly. Next to him, a woman gripped an M16 with a custom paint job, the camouflage pattern chipped away by years of harsh use.
Another man, his face gaunt and eyes hollow, wielded a Desert Eagle, the polished chrome glinting ominously in the dim light. A younger man, barely out of his teens, clutched an AK-47, its wooden stock scarred and splintered.
