The library was quiet—eerily so—despite the presence of at least a dozen survivors scattered among the stacks. Makeshift barricades constructed of overturned shelves and rotting furniture lined the walls, while faint trails of smoke drifted from a fire pit near the center of the room. The air smelled of charred paper and damp mildew, a pungent reminder of the apocalypse's toll on even the smallest sanctuaries.
Mallory adjusted her tiara, a souvenir from their earlier encounter, as she eyed the survivors. They stared back with expressions ranging from distrust to outright hostility. One of them, a wiry man with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek, stepped forward. He held a rusted machete in one hand and tapped it rhythmically against his thigh.
"This is our space," he said, his voice gravelly. "Turn around, and no one has to get hurt."
Altair's hand rested instinctively on his weapon, but Mallory stepped forward, raising her hands in mock surrender.
