The word "kill" hung heavily in the air, dripping with menace. The synchronized sound of soldiers loading their rifles at the entrance to the apartment complex silenced the crowd completely.
Moments later, quick-witted survivors began to form lines, and soon others followed suit, scrambling to get organized. Logan joined the back of one of the lines, observing the tense atmosphere.
A younger voice replaced the menacing one from earlier, speaking through the loudspeaker with a more composed tone: "Please line up, have your ID ready, and after registering, proceed to collect your supplies. Each ID entitles you to one set. If you are collecting for your family members, you need to present household registration or marriage certificates as proof. Fraudulent attempts will result in the permanent loss of your right to receive supplies. Please be reasonable and cooperative."
The voice continued:
"If you've lost your ID, register on the right side. For those applying for jobs, head to the left for interviews. We ask for your understanding during these special times."
As Logan stood in line, he noticed that the process was moving efficiently, which suggested the screening wasn't too strict.
Suddenly, a commotion broke out near the front of the queue.
"My last name is Johnson, but my son carries his mother's last name, Miller. What's wrong with that? Why can't I collect for him?!" a man shouted angrily.
The staff member handling registrations remained calm, replying,
"If you want to collect for your family, you must provide proof, like household registration or your wife's ID and marriage certificate."
"I came all the way from the southern district! I didn't bring those papers!" the man argued.
"Without the proper proof, you can only collect for yourself," the staff member responded.
"What? Aren't you supposed to be helping people? What kind of service is this?" "I need to talk to your manager!" the man continued.
Before he could escalate further, a cold gun barrel pressed against his forehead.
"Didn't you hear what was said? With proof, you can collect for others. Without it, you get your share. Now, either collect your supplies or go home and get your documents. You'll die if you insist on being the troublemaker."
The gruff voice came from the man Logan had noticed earlier—the one commanding the soldiers. He was a massive figure in a military coat, his presence even more intimidating up close, with a scarred eye that added to his menacing appearance.
The troublemaker's legs buckled, and he dropped to the ground.
"Yes... Yes sir! I...understand!" he stammered before quickly collecting his own registration token and scurrying through the right-hand passage into the complex.
The rest of the crowd, who had been contemplating similar arguments, quickly abandoned the idea after witnessing this. The line moved faster after that.
Before long, people emerged from the apartment complex, each carrying large black bags. The sight of these bags caught the attention of everyone still in line. One bold person shouted,
"Hey, what did you get in that bag?"
The man with the bag didn't respond, gripping it tightly as he hurried away.
After about three hours, Logan found himself nearing the front of the line. As he watched others pass through the registration process, it became clear that the only part receiving close scrutiny was verifying those collecting for others. For individuals, it was straightforward: show your ID, provide basic information, and proceed to collect your supplies.
Logan was intrigued by the man overseeing the soldiers—his presence commanded respect and fear. At one point, a soldier addressed him as "Major General Hayes," which confirmed Logan's suspicion that he was the leader of the local military forces.
When Logan reached the front of the line, he presented Agent No. 2's ID. The registration officer glanced at the ID and then at Logan.
"What was your profession before? Why are you wearing a mask?"
Logan feigned a cough, making his voice hoarse.
"I've been coughing a lot lately. I'm worried it might be the flu. Is there any medicine in the supplies?" he asked.
"I used to be an accountant."
The officer hesitated for a moment, then handed Logan a metal token and the ID back.
"Go ahead, present the token to collect your supplies. Next."
Logan took the token and followed the path designated by the soldiers. Armed guards stood at intervals along the way, ensuring no one stepped out of line. The metal token in his hand was a simple, rectangular aluminum plate, stamped with the insignia of the Xia Country. It seemed hastily made, with rough edges that could easily cut someone if they weren't careful.
Logan understood the need for such a process. By distributing supplies inside the apartment complex, they prevented potential riots or theft. The soldiers inside would ensure no one attempted to take more than their own share, keeping the distribution orderly and secure.
As he turned a corner, Logan spotted a familiar face coming toward him with a bag of supplies. It was Finn Cooper. He looked weary and disheveled, clutching his bag like it was his lifeline. Though Finn had managed to scam a few people for food and clothing early on, his luck had run out. Beaten and robbed, he had been forced to survive on nothing for two days.
When Finn noticed Logan staring at him, he scowled. Having only seen Logan masked and accompanied by Max Knight before, he didn't recognize him.
"What are you looking at?" Finn barked, glaring at Logan before hurrying toward the exit.
Logan smirked beneath his mask but said nothing, his mind already racing with thoughts of how to use the supplies and information he'd gathered to further his plans.