Malik didn't bother to pretend to be friendly with him after the flow of events starting from Benson being beat up.
Benson sat in the corner of the dining hall, his back pressed against the cold wall. The place smelled like burnt bread and something sour, but he barely noticed. A bowl of thin soup sat in front of him, untouched. Around him, other fighters laughed and talked, but he didn't join in. His mind was somewhere else.
He stirred the soup with a spoon, the watery broth swirling aimlessly. His body ached from the earlier fight, bruises blooming across his ribs and arms. His face was still sore where a fist had connected, and his muscles protested with every small movement.
But pain didn't bother him. It was nothing compared to the thought that played on repeat in his mind.
Kill them.
The words came unbidden, quiet at first, but growing louder the more he thought about the gang. Those boys had made it clear—they wanted him dead. If he didn't act first, they would finish what they started. He had to fight back.
He had to kill them.
Benson lifted his spoon and took a small sip of the soup. It was bitter and barely warm, but he forced it down. Food was fuel, and he needed to stay strong. As he ate, his mind began to work through the problem.
There were four of them. The leader was the loudest and the strongest. Benson remembered the way he had grabbed him by the collar, his grip like iron. Taking him out first would be a mistake. The others would be on high alert if their leader fell. No, the leader had to be last.
He turned his attention to the others. There was one with a crooked nose who seemed to enjoy kicking him the most during the earlier beating. Crooked Nose wasn't as strong as the leader, but he was fast. He'd need to be taken out second, maybe. Or would it be better to save him for later?
Benson frowned and took another sip of his soup.
The weakest one was easy to pick out. He was shorter than the rest, with nervous eyes that darted around constantly. Benson had noticed how the boy hesitated during the fight earlier, his punches half-hearted compared to the others. The weakest link.
He'd start with him.
Benson placed his spoon down and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. He could see it in his mind: the nervous boy, separated from the group. Benson could approach him quietly, take him out before he had a chance to scream.
A knife would be ideal, but he didn't have one. He'd have to use his hands, maybe a rock or a piece of broken glass. It didn't matter. He'd figure it out when the time came.
Once the weakest one was gone, the rest would be easier to handle. They'd lose some of their confidence without their numbers. He'd move on to Crooked Nose next. He was faster, but speed didn't matter if you caught someone off guard.
The third would be the quiet one, the one who followed orders without question. He wasn't as vocal as the others, but Benson had noticed how he stayed close to the leader, like a shadow. He was dangerous in his own way, but not impossible to deal with.
And then, finally, the leader.
Benson opened his eyes and looked around the dining hall. He spotted the gang sitting at a table on the other side of the room. They were laughing loudly, shoving each other playfully as they ate. The leader leaned back in his chair, confident and smug, as if he owned the place.
Benson's hands clenched into fists under the table. They didn't see him as a threat. They thought he was weak, easy prey.
Good.
Let them think that.
The more they underestimated him, the easier it would be to take them down.
Benson took another bite of his soup, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the plan. He'd need to wait for the right moment. It couldn't be during the day, not with so many people around. Night would be better, when the barracks were quieter.
He'd have to be quick, efficient. No hesitation. If he faltered, if he gave them even a second to fight back, it could all fall apart.
The thought of killing them didn't scare him as much as it should. Maybe it was the hunger gnawing at his stomach, or the ache of his bruises. Maybe it was the way the world had changed, forcing people to adapt or die.
Or maybe it was something else.
Benson's thoughts flickered to the strange visions he'd had earlier. That black, formless shape with the huge mouth and the single vertical eye. It had appeared in his mind when he was being beaten, a silent watcher over the chaos. He didn't know what it was or why it had appeared, but it had left an impression.
That thing—whatever it was—it didn't care about morals or rules. It existed to consume, to take, to dominate.
Benson shook his head, trying to push the thought away. It didn't matter. What mattered was surviving, and to survive, he had to act.
The gang laughed again, their voices grating against his nerves. Benson watched them, his expression blank, but his mind was racing.
The weakest one. Then Crooked Nose. Then the quiet one. Then the leader.
One by one, he'd bring them down.
His soup was almost gone now, the bowl empty except for a few scraps of vegetables at the bottom. He set it aside and leaned back against the wall, his eyes still on the gang.
They didn't know what was coming.
Benson closed his eyes again, letting the plan solidify in his mind. He would do what needed to be done.
Because in this world, it was every man for himself.
I need to replenish my XP. He was currently reading a glaring zero on XP. He needed to consume.
Crooked nose it is.