Benson glanced at the cracked ceiling while leaning against the chilly barracks wall with his arms folded and his head cocked back.
He didn't care enough to move despite the room's thick dampness. He wasn't actually exhausted.
He simply had no desire to accomplish anything. His life had been a series of meaningless rituals prior to the end of the world.
He had alternated between employment he didn't desire and late-night phone scrolling till his eyes ached. Ambition? That wasn't for him, no.
Living on the absolute minimum was easy. He recalled waiting for a job interview he didn't even desire while seated in that university office.
He didn't care that the chair had been uncomfortable and had been squeaking every time he moved.
It was simply the way it was. He never really tried to direct life; it just moved and he followed. His mother had texted him, "Try your hardest." Don't make us seem bad," his father continued.
After a few minutes of staring at the messages, he put his phone back in his pocket without responding.
What could be said? He was the same person now, but in a worse situation.
"Hi." He was startled out of his reverie by the voice.
Malik was standing over him, holding him a little, crushed apple, when he turned his head slightly.
Benson said, "Thanks," without giving it much thought.
Without bothering to consume it, he flipped it over in his palms. "Are you always this happy?" Malik went down to sit next to him and inquired.
"Pretty much," Benson muttered.
Malik snorted. "You don't ask a lot of questions."
Benson shrugged. "Questions don't change much."
"Not worried about tomorrow?"
"Worried? No. Tired? Yeah."
Malik glanced at him sideways. "Tired of what?"
Benson let out a small laugh, though it lacked humor. "Everything."
"Thinking about the old world?" Malik asked, his voice unusually soft.
"Yeah," Benson admitted. "You?"
Malik shrugged. "I was a welder. Nothing special. Just a guy with a mask and a torch. Spent more time fixing broken things than building anything new. Funny how some things never change." He glanced at Benson. "What about you?"
"Was Journalist, tried to be a Lecturer," Benson replied. "Not a very good one."
"Explains why you're so mouthy," Malik teased, though there was no malice in his tone.
Before Benson could respond, the sound of footsteps drew their attention. A group of boys, the same ones who had been glaring at him earlier, were approaching. Their leader, a tall, wiry guy with a sneer that seemed permanently etched onto his face, stopped a few feet away.
"Well, well," the leader said, his voice dripping with mockery. "The journalist and the welder. What a team."
Benson stood, his hands clenched into fists. "What do you want?"
"What do you think?" the boy sneered. "We're just making sure you understand your place before tomorrow."
Benson barely had time to react before the first punch landed. He staggered back, his vision swimming as another blow struck his ribs. Malik tried to intervene, but one of the boys shoved him hard, sending him sprawling.
The gang surrounded Benson, fists and boots hitting him from every side. He swung back, wild and desperate, but without Enhanced Speed, he didn't stand a chance.
Pain shot through him—his ribs, his face, his legs. A heavy boot slammed into his side, and he hit the ground, gasping for air. His vision blurred, each blow making it harder to think.
"Tomorrow," the leader sneered, grabbing Benson by the collar. "You're dead. You hear me? Dead."
They laughed as they walked away, leaving him crumpled on the ground.
Benson turned his head slightly and saw Malik standing at a distance. Watching. Not moving. Not helping.
Of course, Benson thought bitterly. Every man for himself.
He let his head drop back, staring at the cracked ceiling. That thought—every man for himself—gnawed at him, made his chest tighten. The hunger hit him again, sharp and deep. It wasn't the kind of hunger that food could fix. It felt darker.
The thought of killing them, every last one of them, burned in his mind. It was a crazy thought, but it wouldn't go away.
The air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier.
For a moment, everything slowed.
Above the group of boys, something appeared. A black shadow, massive and shapeless, twisting and moving. Its mouth stretched so wide it seemed to swallow the light. In the center of its dark form, a single vertical eye glowed faintly, unblinking.
The thing loomed over them, silent and still. No one noticed. Not the boys. Not Malik. Not even Benson, lying battered on the ground. It was there, watching, but only the air was stifled, almost scarce.
That feeling again…. What is this? The thought creeped in Benson's mind.
The thing's presence was heavy, suffocating. Its enormous mouth shifted slightly, and a low hum vibrated in the air. It hung over them all like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The boys' laughter faded as they walked away, still unaware. Benson stayed on the ground, fists slowly curling against the cold floor.
One thought stayed with him.
Kill them.
Was that Greed or was that him? I don't know anymore.
Every last one. Okay this one is definitely me.
For a moment, all he could do was lie there, staring at the cracked ceiling again. Blood trickled from his lip, and every breath felt like fire in his chest.
His hands curled into fists. The idea made his stomach churn, but at the same time, it felt… right. Necessary.
Those fucking bastard…..
Kill them before they kill you.
A familiar voice slithered through his thoughts, low and hungry:
[Mission Issued: Kill every last one of them.]
Benson froze, the words hanging in his mind like a noose. The hunger from before returned, sharp and insistent, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.
"Not now," he muttered, pressing his hands to his temples.
But the voice didn't fade. If anything, it grew louder.
[Reward: 250 XP. Bonus for complete elimination: 500 XP.]
He shuddered, the promise of power tugging at something primal inside him. For a moment, he considered it. Considered the strength he could gain. The safety it might bring.
But then he saw Malik watching him, his expression unreadable.
"You okay?" Malik asked, his tone cautious.
Hah…. No thanks to you, fucking asshole. Benson chose to keep these colorful words to himself, he wasn't ready to be punched or something by Malik.
Benson shrugged his touch away and forced a smile. "Yeah. Just peachy."
Malik didn't look convinced, but he didn't press the issue.
As Benson lay back down, staring at the ceiling once more, the voice lingered in his mind, whispering promises of strength and survival.
And for the first time, he didn't push it away.
"I'm going to kill those bastards," he muttered.