A week had slipped by faster than Daniel expected since he first arrived in Raccoon City. The days blurred together in a comforting rhythm, each beginning long before sunrise. His apartment was quiet and still in those early hours, the silence wrapping around him as he slowly stretched away the stiffness from his sleep. Every morning, he could feel his body responding a little better to the exercises, the familiar ache in his muscles gradually fading into something reassuring.

  He'd scraped together enough cash to buy a modest weight set, and it had quickly become part of his daily routine. The cold metal plates felt grounding in his hands, the steady clinking sound offering a quiet reassurance he couldn’t quite explain. Afterward, he'd step outside into the shadowy pre-dawn streets, empty except for the occasional distant rumble of traffic. He ran until his breath burned in his lungs and sweat drenched his shirt, chasing away lingering thoughts.

  Rent wasn't a worry yet, past-him had paid up for the first three months, but he knew that beyond that things would get tight. The butcher job he'd had waiting for him was comfortingly familiar, almost eerily so. Handling knives, feeling the satisfying resistance of meat beneath practiced cuts, brought him a strange sense of normalcy. The pay was decent enough to keep him stable and in 1997 was considered good money, but the long hours left him exhausted. It was work, nothing more. A steady paycheck, but it felt disconnected from the bigger picture he'd begun to form in his mind.

  Every afternoon, Daniel wandered through Raccoon City, soaking in the details. The buildings, streets, and landmarks teased vague, half-forgotten memories from a lifetime ago. He moved slowly, taking mental notes, trying to bridge the gap between the quiet normalcy he saw and the dark, chaotic future he half-remembered from distant, almost unreal games.

  One highlight had been trying out Rebecca's café recommendation. The small shop was nestled into a narrow street, marked by a simple wooden sign and warmly lit windows. Inside, the mismatched furniture and shelves lined with worn books gave it a cozy, inviting atmosphere. Settling into a comfortable, threadbare armchair with coffee and a snack, Daniel felt unexpectedly grateful to Rebecca. The coffee was surprisingly good- rich and smooth, far better than he'd anticipated. He hadn't seen her again since their first meeting, but he made a note to tell her next time he saw her.

  Daniel spent a few afternoons quietly observing from his corner in the café, getting a feel for regular customers, occasionally tuning into snippets of conversation. Nothing unusual, but he began recognizing faces and even exchanging small, polite nods with a few regulars. It was almost unsettling how ordinary everything was, how easily it made him doubt his memories, and then something would jar him back to reality, and the sense of tension would return.

  Still, he persisted, exploring further each day. Every route and alleyway he memorized felt like another small piece added to a puzzle he wasn't entirely sure he understood yet. Daniel knew caution was his best asset, especially with just how out of place he felt. He always seemed to have that creeping feeling of being watched, and reckless mistakes were something he simply couldn't afford. Raccoon, for all it’s competing designs, was one heavily surveilled city. He had spotted at least a hundred cameras in this area alone, and not just the traffic cams. These were the high-end bubble cams that sat just high enough to avoid notice, but once you did, you never forgot them.

  As the week drew to a close, Daniel found himself reflecting on his newfound routine. It was comforting, predictable, yet he couldn’t shake an underlying worry that hummed beneath the calm surface of his days. Each peaceful moment felt borrowed, shadowed by a creeping anxiety he couldn't quite dispel.

  Even the simple act of washing dishes after a lean dinner, the repetitive motion of scrubbing and rinsing, did little to ease his mind. Every ordinary task was tinged with the unease of waiting for something he couldn't fully grasp but knew was coming.

  Despite his lingering doubts, Daniel reminded himself to remain patient. His slow, methodical explorations were yielding small insights, tiny footholds in a situation he barely understood. Patience, he thought, was probably his most important ally right now.

  Yet as he lay awake that night, eyes tracing vague patterns on the ceiling, Daniel couldn't help wondering how much longer patience would remain enough.

  On one of his early walks through Raccoon City, Daniel came across the Kendo Gun Shop. Tucked into a quieter part of town, the storefront stood out with its chipped paint, weathered signage, and wide windows that revealed an orderly display of firearms and gear. Something about the place felt grounded. Solid. Like it had been there forever and wasn’t going anywhere.

  Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and aged wood, in that sharp, clean, oddly reassuring way. Glass display cases lined the shop, filled with weapons and gear arranged with a practiced eye. Everything about the place spoke of care. Behind the counter stood a man wiping down a rifle with methodical ease. Robert Kendo didn’t need an introduction. He looked up, offered a short nod, and a firm handshake that spoke of confidence.

  Daniel explained he was new to the city and looking for a sidearm. The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, but not unfamiliar. He wasn’t new to pistols. Not entirely. Back home, wherever back home was now, he used to hit the range once or twice a month. It had been a hobby, a stress reliever. He knew his way around a trigger, knew a lot of the basics, but he wasn’t an expert. The way his hands still remembered the grip, the balance, the way to read a front sight, it was comforting. That skill had survived the jump into this new world. Not much had, but that did.

  Kendo didn’t press. He asked a few questions, nothing probing, then listened as Daniel laid out what he was after: something reliable, not too flashy, something he could trust if things went bad. Kendo had a wide selection, everything from wheel guns to some big caliber showpieces, but Daniel already knew what he wanted. He picked the Jericho 941 in 9mm. The reason was personal. Nostalgic, even. It was the same model a character used in an anime he loved as a teen. Spike Spiegel had style. Daniel never forgot it. He wouldn’t say that out loud, though. Instead, he cited balance, accuracy, and frame strength. It was even true, both the reasons and the logic. It was what he owned before, and he knew it best. Kendo agreed, though it wasn’t to his taste. Called it a dependable sidearm, though, with a good reputation. Solid steel. Built for work.

  The sale went through without fuss. Kendo ran through a basic safety rundown anyway, despite Daniel’s quiet assurances that he’d handled pistols before. Daniel didn’t mind. It was good to be walked through things again. He followed along, nodding at familiar steps. The magazine catch. Slide release. Double-action trigger pull. None of it was new, but it was grounding. He left the shop with the Jericho packed neatly in a foam-lined case and the sense that he’d made the right call.

  On his third visit, he headed out back to the shop’s private range. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. The targets were set. The walls were thick. He checked his stance, drew the Jericho, and settled into a groove. Grip firm. Front sight clear. Breathe. Squeeze.

  The first magazine was rough. He anticipated the recoil too much, rushed his shots. But by the second, his body remembered. The rhythm came back. Not perfect, but solid. Good enough to tighten his groupings. The familiarity brought a flicker of relief. At least one part of him hadn’t been erased.

  Kendo wandered out halfway through. He watched Daniel’s form, then offered a couple quiet corrections. Ease up on the lean. Don’t overgrip. Keep the elbows loose. Daniel listened, adjusted. The improvement was noticeable. Robert knew what he was doing, and knew it well.

  By the end of the session, he was printing consistent center-mass hits. Nothing flashy, but reliable. And that was what mattered. Kendo had told him that he was decent for a civvie, but could always use some more practice. Tole him he ran a little shooting club on the weekends, if Daniel was interested, and that he should stop by. Once he had some money in his pocket, he promised he would.

  The walk home was lighter than expected. The weight of the pistol, the confidence of it, made him feel more centered. Not safe, not exactly, but grounded. Like when something did happen, he’d at least have a fighting chance. It was a strange thing to think about, though, the certainty of when something happened. He would be back for more target practice, he was sure about that.

  Back in his apartment, he sat at the kitchen table and disassembled the pistol. It came apart smoothly in his hands, the motions almost automatic. He cleaned the barrel, checked the recoil spring, oiled the rails. The smell of solvent lingered in the air, oddly nostalgic. He reassembled it slowly, deliberately, checking each piece as he went.

  The Jericho slid back together with a clean, satisfying click. He held it for a moment longer, then placed it in its case and tucked it away in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. It wasn’t the end of things, but it was a start. It was the first thing that had made him feel prepared since waking up in the woods. No map. No plan. But now, at least, he wasn’t unarmed. Baby steps.

  And that counted for something.

  000

  A need to get something done had gotten him moving again. No time like the present, he’d thought. It was that mentality that lead him to where he was, walking into downtown from his surprisingly close apartment. He’d been doing that a lot, walking. And not just for the exercise, either, as the streets in Raccoon were a little too narrow for the kind of modern city traffic it had come to expect. A relic of a bygone era, but also a source of never-ending gridlock.

  Daniel had passed by the RPD building twice before he made himself go inside. Up close, the place had weight; stone, iron, and thick doors that looked more like a courthouse than a working station. The old museum bones of the former city hall building were still visible if you looked close enough.

  He stepped into the front lobby, the soles of his boots clicking softly against polished tile. The air inside smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and paper. A woman at the front desk glanced up from her clipboard and offered a polite smile.

  “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  Daniel walked over, adjusting his tone to something casual.

  “Hi. I was wondering if the department runs any community outreach stuff. Volunteer programs, training courses, that sort of thing. I used to help with those back where I lived before I moved.”

  It was a believable enough line, and not far from the truth. He had a real interest now, even if his reasons had changed.

  The woman nodded and opened a drawer behind the desk, pulling out a manila folder packed with brochures.

  “We’ve got quite a few things. CPR certification, emergency readiness programs, and a neighborhood watch initiative, among others. Some of them are led by volunteers, others by officers or medical partners. You can check out the list down the hall, to the processing room on your left.”

  “Thanks,” Daniel said, accepting the papers.

  He turned to go but paused and turned back.

  “Actually, while I’ve got you, how hard is it to get a CCW here?”

  The woman looked up again, unfazed.

  “Concealed carry?”

  Daniel nodded.

  She tapped a binder on the counter.

  “Application’s straightforward. Raccoon is shall-issue. No references or training requirement unless you're applying for the professional-grade permit. Civilian concealed carry just needs proof of residency, a background check, and a waiting period of ten business days. You fill out the form, submit a copy of your license and a utility bill, then pick it up after you clear.”

  “No mandatory class?”

  “It’s encouraged, but not required. Some people still take the firearm safety course anyway. It helps with renewal and it’s handled by one of our resident STARS. He really knows his stuff, so we try to recommend it whenever it comes up. You want a copy of the form?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  She flipped to the back of the binder and pulled a blank application, along with a checklist.

  “You can drop it off here once it’s filled out. Processing is quick unless there’s a backlog. If you're already a firearm owner and haven’t had any local issues, it should go through without trouble.”

  Daniel took the form, folding it neatly into the pamphlets already in his hand. “Appreciate it.”

  “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He thanked her again and made his way down the hall to the room she’d pointed out. The walls here were plainer, lined with public service posters and a few department notices pinned to cork boards. The processing room was unoccupied, just a folding table stacked with brochures and sign-up sheets.

  He stepped inside and glanced through the offerings. Most of the flyers matched the ones she had already handed him, but a few extras stood out: neighborhood watch orientation, a list of upcoming blood drives, and a CPR certification event with a handwritten “NEW” tag on the corner. He took that one and skimmed it. The session was scheduled for next week. A walk-in course, two hours, no equipment needed.

  Daniel folded that into his jacket pocket along with the CCW form. He grabbed a pen from the table and jotted down the department number listed on the contact line. If the time came, having a permit might mean the difference between being armed legally or not at all. Especially if things started going sideways, and it was always a good idea to cross your Ts and dot your Is when it didn’t really cost you anything. Filling it out would take only a second.

  He stood for a moment longer, flipping through a few more sheets. Most of it was dry but practical. He didn’t know how long he’d have access to places like this. While the front doors were open, he intended to make the most of it. One more small piece locked into place. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just necessary.

  “Hey! Daniel, right?” The voice caught him off guard as his head popped up, only to spot a friendly man with dark, shaggy dark brown hair and the same thin goatee that he remembered from what was his first real encounter coming into the city.

  Daniel hadn’t expected to run into Officer Ryman again, but there he was, standing just inside the doorway of the processing room as if he had been looking for someone. Or maybe just passing by. Either way, Daniel waved, and gave a polite nod as he set down the bunch of pamphlets and paperwork he had been working on.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Ryman said, stepping in with an easy gait. His uniform was crisp, helmet absent, and his tone friendly.

  “Yeah,” Daniel replied. “Still figuring out the city. Thought I’d stop by and see what kind of stuff the department offers for the public. Community programs, first aid, that sort of thing.”

  Ryman looked down at the small pile of brochures at Daniel’s side and smiled.

  “Looks like you made a haul. Most people only bother grabbing one or two.”

  Daniel shrugged, trying not to sound rehearsed. “I like to be thorough. Used to help out back in my hometown. Local drives, safety events, whatever needed extra hands. Figured I’d look into doing the same here.”

  “Good to hear,” Ryman said. “Not a lot of folks take that kind of interest, especially new arrivals. City’s better when people pitch in.”

  Daniel nodded, appreciating the officer’s genuine tone. Ryman didn’t seem like a guy putting on a face. If anything, he had that same calm he’d shown on the side of the road the first time they met.

  “Settling in okay?” Ryman asked.

  “Getting there. New job’s keeping me busy,” Daniel replied. “Spending the rest of my time trying to get the lay of the land. Still working on the whole social life part.”

  Ryman chuckled. “Yeah, this place takes a little getting used to. Lot of history, not all of it good. Still, if you’re patient with it, Raccoon grows on you.”

  Daniel didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know yet if that was true, and he wasn’t sure he’d be around long enough to find out.

  “Hey,” Ryman said, shifting gears. “You might be interested in something we’ve got coming up. First aid safety course. Short, easy to follow, good for civilians. Run by someone out of the STARS office. Real sharp medic, from what I hear.”

  That caught Daniel’s attention. STARS. That was the kind of name that made his stomach twist a little. It was early, maybe too early, but it matched up with what he remembered. A puzzle piece dropping into place.

  “Open to the public?”

  “Yep. They want it to be accessible. Might even count for extra credit if you sign up for any of the more serious response training later on. You’d be surprised how often those skills come in handy.”

  Daniel nodded slowly. “Do you know when?”

  “Next Thursday. Two sessions. One in the morning, one in the evening. Both at the community hall annex, two blocks down from here. I can write down the address if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Ryman pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his uniform and scribbled the details down, tearing the sheet clean and handing it over.

  “Shouldn’t need to bring anything,” he said. “They’ll provide kits and dummies. Just show up and listen.”

  Daniel took the slip, tucking it into his jacket alongside the CPR flyer.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problem. It’s good to see someone taking initiative. Most folks just keep their heads down.”

  Daniel gave a small, dry smile. “Sometimes you have to look up.”

  Ryman nodded once, then glanced at his CCW form. “See someone else is also preparing for the worst.” he said, eyeing the form.

  “Also a holdover from back home. The permit didn’t transfer and it’s better to have it and not need it, you know? Dangerous world out there, even in the nice parts.” Daniel said, with a guilles shrug. Ryman seemed to agree, as he held out his hand.

  “Tell you what, finish that up real fast and I’ll run it for you. Save you the ten bucks and the waiting period. It’s mostly just air time in the mail anyway. Got your license? Just need the ID and the form.” Daniel blinked, and gave the officer a smile, appreciatively.

  “Thanks a lot. I still kinda wanted to go to the safety course, too, if that’s fine? I heard they had some real pros there. I wanted to see them in action.”

  “Absolutely. Next one is this upcoming Tuesday, and Barry is a hell of a shooter. Even old hands talk to him sometimes about getting their game up, yours truly included. It’s a good call.” Ryman said, approvingly. “It’s a walk in class, so just show up with your piece and pay attention.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Anyway, let me run this real fast, and we’ll grab a fast photo, and then I gotta get back to it.” He said. “Paperwork doesn’t do itself and I got a heck of a lot to do today. Been a mess.”

  “Sounds like, man. I’ll just wait here, then?” Ryman nodded, before popping back into the bowels of the office. Sure enough, he came back not five minutes later with chunky digital camera and in another five, a laminated card and another pamphlet for the course on Sunday.

  Ryman grinned at him, and gave him a parting nod, and stepped back into the corridor, footsteps fading down the hall.

  Daniel stayed in the room a little longer, pretending to read, though most of the fliers in his hand were already familiar. His thoughts were elsewhere. STARS seemed to be pretty active in the community, running a bunch of different courses. Which made sense, he supposed. They weren’t traditional SWAT, more akin to a paramilitary attache to the office, and whoever was crunching the numbers probably wanted them to earn their keep when they weren’t doing special forces things.

  It was an opportunity to meet the ‘cast’, anyway. The training wouldn’t go amiss either, if only to give him an idea of what he doesn’t know he doesn’t know. A place to start, and he could use that, if only just because the sum total of his emergency knowledge was ‘put bandaid on booboo’ and precious little else.

  000

  The bus let him off three blocks west of where downtown’s polished edge gave way to something older. Daniel tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and walked past the last of the glass storefronts and the chain cafes, stepping into a part of Raccoon City that didn’t show up in the brochures.

  It started gradually. The pavement cracked more often. The streetlights flickered or stayed off. The hum of city life dimmed to a distant echo. Here, the buildings were lower, broader, built for production and logistics rather than show. They lined the streets like hunched shoulders, long stretches of brick and rusted corrugated metal, most of it sealed behind chains, plywood, and handwritten “NO TRESPASSING” signs that looked more like a warning than a legal formality.

  Daniel didn’t have a destination in mind. He’d picked a direction that felt like it had been forgotten and walked toward it. That was the point. To find out what the city didn’t show. He wasn’t looking for a clue or a lead. Just a baseline. If something went wrong in Raccoon, this was where it would hit first, or where it would be hidden.

  The sidewalks here were cracked and half-swallowed by weeds. A few delivery trucks sat idle behind chain-link fences, rust climbing their wheel wells like ivy. The warehouses they guarded were silent and dark, their windows covered or blackened by time. And the strange thing was… no one was around. Not even the signs of people. No empty bottles, no sleeping bags in doorways, no graffiti. For a place that had clearly been abandoned, it felt too clean. Scrubbed, in a way that left Daniel uneasy.

  He slowed at an intersection, glancing down a side street lined with short, dead trees and broken benches. Once, it might have been a lunch spot for workers. Now it was just a narrow strip of concrete between two rows of shuttered buildings. A small clearing sat at the far end, hemmed in by brush and low fencing.

  That was when he saw the fire.

  Not large, just a steady, controlled flame sitting low in a stone-lined pit. It cast a soft, flickering light on the figure next to it. The man sat on a familiar squat stool, green crate by his side, weathered cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders like a curtain drawn against the world.

  Daniel stopped without meaning to.

  The Survivalist didn’t look up immediately. He stirred something in a tin pot over the fire, gloved hand moving with slow precision. Then he spoke, voice low and warm.

  “Thought I might see you again.”

  Daniel took a few steps forward, boots crunching on loose gravel. The air here felt thicker. Not unpleasant, just quieter, heavier. As if the place had been holding its breath.

  “I wasn’t looking for you,” Daniel said. “Just walking.”

  “Some places don’t like being looked for,” the man replied, finally glancing up. His eyes were the same- sunken, jaundiced, alert without looking tense. “They show up when they feel like it.”

  Daniel looked around. The setting was half-park, half-forgotten easement. Small trees stretched overhead, untrimmed but alive. Old stone benches lined the edges of the clearing. Moss had claimed most of them. Behind the Survivalist, the big green crate sat like a sentinel, same as before. The tent was there too, partly hidden between two trees, canvas draped and staked like it had always been there.

  Daniel hesitated. For a moment, he had almost managed to convince himself the Survivalist had been a dream. Or a hallucination born from panic. But here he was again, real as anything else. Sitting beside a fire like nothing had changed.

  “You gonna stand there all day?” the Survivalist asked, amused. “Fire’s warm. Company’s free.”

  Daniel stepped closer and sat on the edge of one of the old benches. The heat from the flames reached him gradually, not blazing, just enough to loosen the tension in his back.

  “I’ve been walking through the industrial district,” Daniel said after a moment. “Half the place looks condemned. But there’s no one there. No squatters, no trash, nothing.”

  “Mm.” The Survivalist stirred his pot. “You noticed that.”

  “I figured it might be the city clearing it out, but that clean? That empty?”

  The man chuckled once, a low, short sound.

  “Places like this either rot slow or get cut clean. If no one’s squatting, someone made it that way.”

  Daniel didn’t respond. He stared into the fire instead. The flames cracked gently over dry wood. No sparks flew. The pot steamed faintly, but didn’t boil.

  The Survivalist reached into one of the smaller pouches on his vest and pulled out a metal cup. He filled it from the pot and offered it without comment.

  Daniel took it, more out of instinct than hunger. The liquid smelled earthy. Broth, maybe. He sipped it cautiously. Warm, bland, but real. Nothing strange in it that he could taste.

  “I’ve got some new stock in,” the Survivalist said, casually. “If you're looking.”

  Daniel looked up. “I didn’t bring the coins.”

  The man tilted his head slightly, then nodded toward Daniel’s jacket.

  “Then what’s that in your pocket?”

  Daniel froze. He reached in. The pouch was there. Soft fabric, faintly warm.

  “I didn’t put it there.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too hard about the how. Just means something decided you might need it.”

  Daniel looked down at the pouch in his hand, then back at the man.

  He still didn’t know what the Survivalist was, or how any of this worked. But that didn’t seem to matter.

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  Not anymore.

  The Survivalist didn’t press him right away. He leaned back on his stool, hands resting loosely on his knees, as if the fire was the only thing worth focusing on. Daniel held the pouch for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the coins shift gently inside. It didn’t make sense. He knew that… but the part of him that demanded explanations was quieter now. This was real, or real enough.

  “I didn’t come looking to buy anything,” Daniel said finally.

  The Survivalist’s eyes crinkled faintly. “That’s usually when people end up finding something they need.”

  Daniel hesitated, then nodded toward the green crate beside the fire. “You said you’ve got new stock.”

  “I do.”

  “Mind if I see it?”

  The man didn’t answer with words. He reached behind him, flipped open the crate’s top with a practiced motion, and pulled out a heavy-bound ledger. It looked old, the leather cover worn smooth at the corners, pages thick with handwritten entries. He passed it over without ceremony.

  Daniel took it and sat back, resting it across his lap. He opened to the first marked page. The writing was clean, deliberate. Every item was logged with weight, a rough description, and price. Not in dollars. Just a single symbol next to each: bronze, silver, gold, and platinum.

  There were firearms listed; common models, revolvers, compact pistols, even a couple of long guns with notations about range condition and accessories. Next came ammunition, listed in small bundles or bulk. Then came gear: headlamps, knives, battery kits, a full medbag with a pale cross drawn beside it.

  Some of the items were unfamiliar. There were notations beside certain entries that meant nothing to him: acronyms, field codes, design specs that felt military. One listing mentioned something called a “radio pass-through scrambler,” and another described “an MBU thermal sheath: active dampened.” He had no idea what that meant.

  And beneath that, a separate section. Tools. Navigation. Electronics.

  His eyes locked onto one line: MilDef Gridlink Tablet - Platinum.

  He tapped the line with a fingertip. “What’s this?”

  The Survivalist leaned in slightly, expression unchanged.

  “Military-grade directional and mapping tablet. Rugged build. GPS hard-coded, no selective access. Pulls full grid overlays with building schematics if they’re available. High-capacity battery lasts over thirty hours. Takes memory inserts for expansion.”

  Daniel flipped the page. “So not like the civilian units?”

  “No. Civilian systems are throttled. Access cut. Coverage tied to commercial satellites. This one speaks directly to the good stuff. You could map a sewer crawl with it. Hell, you could track a polar bear in a snow storm.”

  He looked at the listing again. It wasn’t just a map. It was a planning tool. A way to orient himself, mark places, drop notes, track patterns. Every time he’d gone walking through Raccoon, he’d done it by feel. This would let him chart, log, and study the city in detail.

  “Can it be tracked?” Daniel asked.

  The Survivalist shook his head. “It’s not tied to a network. Only pings when you tell it to. Otherwise, it’s local. No feed in, no feed out.”

  Daniel exhaled. “You’re saying it’s off-grid.”

  “Built for people who go places no one’s supposed to.”

  Daniel turned back to the page. Platinum. He ran a thumb over the pouch, feeling the firm coin inside. He knew it was there. The Survivalist hadn’t lied.

  “Does it come with a charger?”

  “Crankable base, mountable if you find a vehicle port. I’ll throw in a spare battery if you’re buying today.”

  Daniel closed the ledger slowly. “You always sell stuff like this to strangers?”

  “I don’t sell it to just anyone,” the Survivalist said. “But you’re not just anyone, are ya, partner?”

  Daniel considered that. He could argue, but there was no point. He wasn’t sure what counted as “anyone” anymore.

  He reached into the pouch, found the platinum coin by touch, and set it gently on the flat stone beside the fire. It caught the glow of the flames and reflected them in a dull, molten gleam.

  The Survivalist reached out and took it without a word, then stood and walked back to the crate. He moved like someone with all the time in the world, not lazy, just deliberate. From inside the crate, he withdrew a thick, blocky device wrapped in a folded canvas sleeve. It looked like it had been built to survive a war. Every edge was reinforced. The screen was sunken beneath a thick bezel, and the buttons were industrial, click-heavy, and labeled in stenciled white print.

  He placed it down in front of Daniel, followed by a thumb-thick manual, a sealed battery, and a small, crank-handle charging dock.

  “No power-on lock. No serial registration. It’ll sync to your position on boot. If you’re missing a map, it has a scanner that’ll let you download it straight off a picture, or just by pointing it at a building. Real spy stuff.”

  Daniel nodded once, then took the device in his hands. It was cold. Heavy. Solid.

  He didn’t say thank you. He wasn’t sure it was that kind of exchange.

  The Survivalist closed the crate again and sat back down.

  “Platinum’s a rare pull,” he said. “Use it like it matters.”

  Daniel looked at the tablet, then at the man, and finally back into the fire.

  “I will.”

  000

  That night, Daniel didn’t cook. He wasn’t hungry in the usual sense. Still, he boiled some water out of habit and poured it into a mug with instant coffee, letting it sit until it was almost cold. The Gridlink Tablet sat on the counter nearby, open and powered on, its screen casting a faint blue glow across the kitchenette.

  He’d spent the last two hours going through its basic functions. The instruction manual was thick, spiral-bound, and dense with diagrams, but he worked through it carefully. Some of it was familiar; standard navigation inputs, zoom layers, basic landmark tagging. But some of it went far beyond what he expected. The tablet’s internal map pulled topographic and structural data in near real-time. When he walked from the living room to the kitchen earlier, it recognized the change in floor plan and adjusted the interior overlay accordingly.

  More than that, it let him annotate as he moved. Notes, symbols, custom alerts. He tested it twice, dropping pins where his front door, his bed, and his stairwell landing were. Each marker stayed, clean and easy to read. No touch screen either- everything was done through buttons and toggles, built for gloved hands in the worst conditions.

  It didn’t just track outdoors. When he passed by one of the city’s larger office buildings earlier in the evening, the tablet had automatically pulled what it could from a federal mapping node- blueprints, emergency exit layouts, and access points. When there was no data, it prompted him to scan the space manually. With time, it could build entire layouts from movement and logged footpaths alone.

  He ran through the power settings again, learning how to toggle between active mode and dormant. The Survivalist hadn’t been lying. The battery life was absurd. Even on full brightness with logging and terrain mapping active, the device reported just under thirty hours of use. And the spare cell it came with added another full charge.

  There was no branding. No maker's mark. Just the word “GRIDLINK” etched in tiny letters near the power port. The serial number was scratched out deliberately.

  Daniel flipped to the last page of the manual. There was a warning there, in plain black ink: Do not attempt to update firmware. Do not attempt network sync. This unit is isolated by design.

  He believed it.

  The coffee had gone cold. He dumped it in the sink and sat back at the table, resting both hands on the edge. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of the heating unit in the wall.

  This thing… it was more than a map. It was a plan builder. A field log. A tracker. Something the right kind of operator would kill to get their hands on. And he had it sitting on his laminate countertop next to a half-used roll of paper towels and a can of off-brand pasta.

  He stared at it for a while, watching the soft pulse of its standby light. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he handed over the coin. Something useful, yes. But not this. Not something so clean. So complete.

  For a moment, a thought crossed his mind, that if the police ever stopped him and found this, how would he explain it?

  He couldn’t. There was no civilian reason to own a device like this. It didn’t just feel restricted. It felt blacklisted. If this thing had an origin, it wasn’t on a shelf.

  And still, he didn’t regret it.

  Daniel reached over and turned it off. The screen faded, then clicked as it shut down. He slid it back into the canvas sleeve and packed the battery, dock, and manual alongside it. The whole kit went into the bottom drawer beneath the kitchen sink, buried under a stack of spare rags and a broken flashlight.

  He paused before closing the drawer.

  There was a strange comfort to it, having something secret. Something prepared. It felt like a good first step, and that mattered. He wasn’t a spy, or some kind of elite special forces guy, but what was that really, if not just a matter of training and discipline, and the right lever to shift the world a little when you needed it?

  He turned back toward the stove, ready to put something simple on- a box of mac and cheese, maybe a pair of hotdogs to chop into it, when a knock came from the door.

  Sharp. Polite. Two firm taps.

  He froze.

  It was late. Too late for someone to stop by casually.

  He wiped his hands on his pants and stepped toward the door slowly, keeping his voice even.

  “Who is it?”

  A beat of silence. Then, a familiar voice.

  “Hey, it’s Rebecca.”

  Daniel blinked. That was the last name he expected to hear tonight.

  He moved quickly now, unhooking the deadbolt and opening the door a few inches. Rebecca stood outside, one hand carefully holding a casserole pan wrapped in foil. She looked tired, her eyes a little puffy, dark circles beneath them, but her smile was bright.

  “Sorry to drop by late. I just… well, I made way too much lasagna again. I used to cook for six people. Now it’s just me, and, well…”

  She lifted the pan slightly.

  “Thought you might want some.”

  Daniel opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Yeah. Yeah, come in.”

  Rebecca stepped inside with a grateful nod, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the cheap tile. She looked like she’d come straight from something exhausting, her hair pulled back hastily, sweatshirt wrinkled at the elbows, a loose string hanging from one cuff. Still, her expression was warm, and her movements easy despite the fatigue.

  “Smells like coffee,” she said as she stepped past the kitchen table. “Sorry if I interrupted something.”

  Daniel closed the door behind her and shook his head. “Just messing with a manual. You’re fine.”

  She set the casserole dish gently on the counter, pulling back the foil with a practiced touch. The smell hit him immediately; cheese, meat, and the distinct richness of tomato sauce. Steam curled up from the surface.

  “Three-cheese with beef sauce,” she said, sounding proud but modest about it. “It’s still hot. I figured I’d bring it over while it’s fresh. I’ve been making way too much food. Can’t seem to scale it down.”

  Daniel grabbed two plates from the cabinet without needing to be asked. “I’ve been living on microwave meals and cheap carbs. I’m not turning this down.”

  Rebecca chuckled as she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded kitchen towel to use as a trivet. “Glad to hear it. I’ve been walking leftovers around the hall all week. The guy across from me is allergic to garlic, so he’s out. You lucked out.”

  Daniel served up a generous portion on each plate while she poured two glasses of water from the tap. She hesitated when he gestured to the small kitchen table, but he raised an eyebrow.

  “You brought dinner. Sit down.”

  She did, sliding into one of the chairs and tucking her legs beneath her. He passed her a plate, then sat across from her, watching her dig in with the kind of appetite that only came from a long day.

  “This is really good,” he said after the first bite. “Like, restaurant-level.”

  “I’ll pretend I haven’t made it three times this week,” she said with a grin.

  They ate in relative quiet for a few minutes, the clinking of forks and the hum of the fridge filling the space. Eventually, Daniel leaned back in his chair, still chewing, and tilted his head toward her.

  “How’s the job going?”

  Rebecca exhaled, setting her fork down. “It’s a lot. The training’s intense. Physical, mostly. Long hours. I knew it would be, but… it’s different when you’re actually doing it. They’re throwing everything at us.”

  She didn’t say what the job was, not directly. And Daniel didn’t press.

  “I started running again,” he offered, “in the mornings. And a little strength training. I figured if I’m going to survive in a new city, I should try not to collapse while doing it.”

  She laughed at that, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Smart. Running’s good. Clears your head. And, you know, keeps you from dying of a heart attack at fifty-five.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You saying I look fifty-five?”

  She grinned. “You don’t look like you’ve had a salad in a while.”

  He made a show of looking hurt, then smiled and took another bite.

  Conversation circled easily after that. They talked about the building, how thin the walls were, the weird smell in the hallway on Tuesdays. She asked if he’d tried the little coffee shop two blocks over, and he told her he had. Her smile at that was bright and genuine.

  “I knew you had good taste,” she said, jabbing at him lightly with her fork. “They put cinnamon in the foam. You can’t beat that.”

  He nodded, remembering. “You weren’t kidding. Best I’ve had in years.”

  She glanced at the microwave clock and rubbed her eyes.

  “I should probably head back. I’ve got another early one tomorrow.”

  Daniel stood with her, gathering the plates. “You want the pan back now?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Nah. Keep it until you finish. Just rinse it and drop it off when you get the chance. I’ve got a few.”

  She grabbed her bag and slung it over one shoulder. As she moved to the door, she paused and glanced back at him.

  “I’m glad you’re settling in, Danny. Some people don’t.”

  “I’m trying,” he said. “It helps, having decent neighbors.”

  That earned him another smile. “Good. Then it’s working.”

  He opened the door for her and watched her step out into the hallway, her shoulders already beginning to slump with the weight of the day.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “You too.”

  When the door shut behind her, Daniel stood still for a long moment. The apartment was quiet again. Too quiet, maybe. But it felt less empty.

  He cleaned up slowly, rinsed the plates, and packed the rest of the lasagna into a container. Two days of meals, at least. He wasn’t used to people doing things like this. Not lately. Not in this life.

  He tucked the pan into the fridge and stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the edge of the door.

  He had no idea what kind of training she was going through. No idea what she knew or what she’d already seen. But there was something steady about her. Something real.

  Daniel closed the fridge and sat back down at the table, the warm scent of lasagna still lingering faintly in the air.

  It had been a good night.

  And he hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

  000

  Daniel slept deeply that night, the kind of sleep that came not from peace, but from complete exhaustion. The tablet was locked away, the dishes cleaned and stacked, the last of the warmth from Rebecca’s visit still faint in the apartment like a scent left behind. He didn’t dream much anymore, and when he did, the memories slipped away before he could hold them.

  But this time was different.

  The dream hit him like a flashbang- instant, consuming, and already in motion. He was in a helicopter. The floor vibrated under his boots. Rain lashed against the windshield up front, and the floodlights below swept across endless dark treetops. A headset buzzed in his ears with muffled chatter. He was sitting with others… five, maybe six bodies beside him, all in tactical gear, helmets strapped, rifles cradled in their arms.

  Across from him, Rebecca sat in a jump seat, her posture rigid. She looked different; clad in black, patches on her shoulders, her expression focused and sharp. She held a medkit on her lap, gloved fingers drumming against the case. There was tension in her jaw, like she knew what was waiting on the ground.

  The dream skipped.

  The helicopter door slid open and wind screamed inside. Rain blurred the world beyond. The team dropped out, boots thudding into wet grass. Daniel landed hard, knees jarring. He tried to get his bearings, but the air smelled wrong. Sour. Thick with rot and stagnant water. Trees loomed in all directions, but they weren’t right. Bark twisted into unnatural shapes. Branches bent in ways they shouldn’t.

  He turned, but Rebecca was already gone.

  There was movement in the dark. Low, fast. A sound, too heavy for footsteps, too wet for wheels. Then barking. Not normal barking, but distorted. Low and fast and furious. His heart kicked into gear. His hands moved on instinct, raising a weapon he didn’t remember picking up.

  The sound of claws tore across the clearing.

  He turned just in time to see them. Dogs, but not. Skinned, snarling, eyes gleaming in the dark. One lunged, its mouth wide, filled with jagged yellow teeth, the muscles beneath its shredded flesh twitching with impossible speed.

  Then everything went black.

  Daniel jolted upright, breath catching in his throat.

  The apartment was warm. Quiet. No barking. No helicopter. Just the soft buzz of the fridge and the faint rustle of leaves beyond the window. He reached for the alarm clock before it could go off and flicked the switch with a trembling hand.

  His shirt was damp. He pushed the blanket off and sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The dream still clung to him, its weight, its motion, its noise. Not just a nightmare. Something else. Too sharp. Too detailed. It didn't feel like watching. It felt like remembering.

  He took a slow breath and stood. The floor was cold under his feet, grounding him. He walked to the sink, splashed water on his face, then braced his palms against the counter. For a long time, he just stood there, dripping, trying to pull himself all the way back into the morning.

  He didn’t think he’d get back to sleep.

  000

  The morning passed in a haze. Daniel didn’t bother with breakfast. He pulled on a fresh shirt, tied his boots tight, and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. The weight of the dream still clung to him, not in fear, but in the feeling of momentum. Like something had started and didn’t intend to stop.

  He stepped out into the hall, locking the door behind him, and moved down the stairwell without his usual hesitation. His limbs felt sluggish, but his mind was wired. The air outside was cool and overcast, the sky smudged gray as if threatening rain that might never come.

  He took a familiar route, one that wound past the edge of a park and into the heart of the commercial district. The buildings here were modest two-story offices, repair shops, one or two strip malls anchored by an old video rental store that somehow hadn’t shut down yet. The streetlights buzzed faintly as he passed beneath them.

  His destination wasn’t specific. Moving helped. Walking helped. He needed to keep himself focused, keep the edges of the dream from creeping back in.

  But the tablet pulled at his thoughts.

  After nearly two blocks, he turned off onto a quieter street, pulled the pouch from his coat pocket, and ducked into a recessed entry between two shuttered storefronts. There, with the wind blocked and the foot traffic minimal, he crouched against the wall and slid the canvas case from his inner pocket. The Gridlink felt heavy in his hands, but not unfamiliar.

  He powered it on.

  The screen came to life with a low, steady pulse of light. A moment later, the interface loaded, the same gridlines blinking softly as it locked onto his position. A map of the surrounding district rendered in real time, lines updating as he moved slightly, calibrating to his elevation and direction.

  He tapped through the settings. Last night, he had only scratched the surface. This morning, he was looking with different eyes. The dream had lit a fire, and now he needed to know what was real.

  There was a feature he hadn’t tested yet. He selected “Manual Recon Mode” from the sidebar. A new layer overlaid the map, turning his current location into a glowing marker. The display prompted him to begin scanning. He angled the tablet slowly left to right, letting the internal compass and motion sensors pick up his rotation. The unit began logging structural outlines, the walls, doors, other entries, and began a rough draft of the alleyway he stood in.

  He confirmed the scan. It was saved automatically.

  Daniel tapped to add a marker. He labeled it “NORTH ALLEY - NS” and set the icon to a neutral flag. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was something he’d been on the lookout for. Even in a town with the level of surveillance that China would be proud of, there were still gaps, blind spots, and holes. Important if he ever needed to stay out of the limelight for a bit.

  He stood and continued walking, the tablet still in his hands. After another fifteen minutes of slow movement, corner-checking, and silent calibration, he had mapped two square blocks with basic notes, traffic patterns, alley depth, building access points. It was addictive in a way. Quiet work. Focused. Tangible. It felt like accomplishing things.

  By the time he reached the end of a long, half-abandoned side street, his mind had settled. The dream still sat in the back of his head, but it no longer ruled his thoughts. Now, there was work to be done.

  He ducked into a narrow alcove to power the device down and return it to its case. As he did, he caught a glimpse of movement across the street- a figure, walking with a slow, even pace, dressed in neutral layers. Not threatening, not hurried.

  Daniel stayed still until they passed out of view, then stepped back onto the sidewalk and made his way toward home.

  He didn’t know yet what the dream meant. He didn’t know if it was prophecy, memory, or just fear bubbling to the surface. But he knew one thing for certain.

  He needed to be ready for the next time it came true.

  The sun had started to push through the cloud cover by midday, and Daniel found himself walking home with no particular urgency. His legs were tired from the miles he’d covered, but it was the good kind of tired; earned, not forced. The city felt different when you walked it with purpose. Not because anything changed, but because you paid more attention. He’d filled a few pages in his notebook earlier with scribbled observations: odd routes, places to avoid after dark, and one alley that seemed like a perfect blind spot.

  He let himself into the apartment and locked the door behind him, dropping his jacket onto the hook and setting the Gridlink tablet case carefully on the kitchen table. The place smelled faintly of the lasagna he hadn’t finished. The scent was stronger now that the apartment had warmed, and it stirred something comforting in him.

  He crossed to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out the glass casserole dish. Still a hefty chunk left. Enough for lunch, maybe dinner too. He didn’t hesitate this time. The food was real, and the gesture behind it even more so. He microwaved a portion, the hum of the appliance filling the kitchen while he poured a glass of water from the tap.

  He ate slowly, this time with more attention. The flavor held up, even after a night in the fridge. She hadn’t lied about knowing how to cook for a crowd. And now that he thought about it, Rebecca had that sort of presence; like someone used to being surrounded by people, used to looking after others. It wasn’t just the food. It was the way she’d paused before sitting down, the quiet check to see if it was okay. She was considerate.

  Daniel didn’t read into it. She was friendly. Helpful. And yeah, cute. But people could just be nice. That didn’t mean it was anything more.

  When the plate was clean, he rinsed it off and stacked it by the sink. No rush returning the dish. She’d said so herself. He dried his hands, then went back to the table and opened the pouch.

  The tablet came alive with a low chime, and the screen lit up to a familiar grid. He hadn’t done much with it since getting home, just enough to get a feel for its full range. He navigated to his notes and reviewed a few of the custom pins he’d dropped earlier. His typed-in notes in the annotation fields were a little messier than he liked, so he cleaned them up, adjusted two timestamps, and reclassified a few markers to reflect traffic density.

  The work calmed him. Kept his mind occupied.

  But part of him still itched with the memory of that dream. Not because he believed it was a message, or that it meant anything in particular. It was just the way it had felt. The speed. The noise. The way the dogs moved. He didn’t know why Rebecca had been in it, but dreams didn’t follow logic. She was just someone his brain had grabbed onto. That was all.

  The dream itself… that was the part that mattered. Or at least what it implied. Danger. Chaos. Something fast and sharp breaking through the routine. That was what stuck with him. Not the setting. Not the faces.

  He opened the side pocket of his notebook and pulled out the flyer for the CPR course. The one Officer Ryman had told him about. Thursday. Two sessions. Public event. Free training.

  That was something he could use.

  He didn’t have grand plans to become a field medic or anything like that, but basic knowledge could go a long way. Compress here. Apply pressure there. It didn’t take a genius to keep someone alive for five minutes until help arrived- or to buy time when help wasn’t coming at all.

  He underlined the time for the morning session and circled the location. It wasn’t far. He could walk it easy in under fifteen minutes.

  There was a name listed for the contact office, but not for the instructor. That didn’t matter. Whoever was teaching it probably wouldn’t even remember his face.

  He reached over and closed the tablet. The screen dimmed, then blinked out. A moment later, the status light settled into a slow, steady pulse. He packed it up carefully, tucked the manual and battery back into the pouch, and zipped it closed.

  As he slid the whole thing under the couch again, his chosen hiding spot for now, and he found himself glancing toward the fridge, where the rest of Rebecca’s lasagna waited.

  Maybe he’d return the dish this weekend. Maybe he’d thank her again. He wasn’t used to people doing nice things without a reason. Should he get something as a thank you? Muffins maybe? Everyone liked muffins. She seemed happy he enjoyed the food, at least.

  But then again, maybe she was just one of those people.

  He looked down at his hands; callused, steady now. No shaking. No trace of the morning’s dream left in his bones.

  He’d be ready for tomorrow. And whatever came after that.

  000

  Saturday brought with it a sense of steadiness Daniel hadn’t felt in a while. He woke early, stretched, ran the same circuit through the neighborhood, and came back to shower before heading out again. The sky was clear, a faint chill in the air, but nothing that bit too hard. It felt like a day for getting things done.

  He made his way to Kendo’s around noon. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of gun oil and old wood wrapping around him like a coat. Robert was at the counter, flipping through a ledger with a pencil tucked behind one ear. He looked up and smiled.

  “Daniel. Good timing. Thought you might swing by today.”

  Daniel nodded, approaching the counter with both hands in his jacket pockets.

  “You mentioned something about a weekend shooting club. I’ve got the time now. And the money.”

  Robert leaned on the counter with a pleased grin. “Glad to hear it. Club’s casual- range day setup out back. Twenty-buck entry to cover targets, refreshments, and maintenance. Nothing fancy. Just regulars putting in hours. You get your carry license yet?”

  “I did a few days ago.”

  “Good. You’ll want to get used to carrying, drawing and holstering. Good habits breed good skills. Here we run drills, offer tips, do some moving exercises, that kinda stuff. It’s not a formal class, but there’s always someone around who knows what they’re doing.”

  Daniel smiled faintly. “I could use the practice.”

  Robert reached under the counter and slid over a small clipboard. “Sign your name. Next shoot’s tomorrow morning, eight sharp. We keep it simple. Bring your own gear. Ammo’s available if you need a top-up, but it’s all sporting rounds. Good for training and plinking but not much else.”

  Daniel filled in the line with a steady hand.

  They chatted a while longer, the conversation light. Robert shared a few stories about past weekends, laughing at the memory of a guy who accidentally glued his holster shut, and another who refused to wear ear pro because he thought it made him shoot “by feel.” Daniel listened with genuine interest, letting himself relax into the rhythm of it. Robert Kendo had a way of making the time fly by once he got into his memories, and honestly? It was fun. The man knew his guns, and a lot more besides.

  On his way home, Daniel stopped by the corner store. He had decided to get Rebecca a treat as a thank you, but something about it tugged at him. Maybe it was the lingering warmth from their shared meal. Maybe it was just wanting to return a gesture properly. It was a small thing, though, but the little things mattered.

  He scanned the shelves and settled on a plastic four-pack of muffins, each one a different flavor; blueberry, chocolate chip, banana nut, and some cinnamon swirl thing he couldn’t quite name. He had no idea what Rebecca liked. That was the problem. But this gave her options, and it was the thought that counted.

  The cleaned lasagna pan, still slightly warm from the rinse and dry, sat in one hand while the fresh muffins hung in the other. He stood a bit awkwardly, pausing outside her door just long enough to feel silly.

  Then he knocked.

  A pause. Then footsteps. The door cracked open, and there she was, dressed down in an oversized tee and pajama pants, hair pulled back and a bit frizzy from rest. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

  “Hey!” she said, genuinely pleased. “I was starting to think you’d ghosted me after the food.”

  He lifted the pan, clean and gleaming. “Not a chance. Thanks again. I didn’t starve this week.”

  She reached out to take it, her smile widening as her fingers brushed the rim.

  “And... muffins,” he added, lifting the small pack like a peace offering. “Didn’t know what kind you liked.”

  Her grin turned into a laugh. “That’s adorable. And smart. I like the variety pack.”

  Daniel relaxed a little, letting her take the package.

  “Thank you,” she said, then nodded toward her kitchen. “I’ll stash these before I eat them all in one sitting.”

  “Glad they’re the right kind.”

  She set the pan on the counter and turned back to him, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve got leftovers again, by the way. If you ever get desperate.”

  “Twist my arm why doncha?” he asked, faux-sarcastically. Rebecca gave him a wide grin, and vanished into the back. A moment later she produced a tupperware of… some kind of chicken dish. A lot of some kind of chicken dish.

  “Chicken parm with egg noodles. Most of yesterday’s dinner, for your approval.” Her tone was light, as he lifted the large container from her hands.

  “Well, guess I’ll be visit you again in a few days. If this is even half as good as the lasagna I get the feeling I’ll be wolfing it down in no time. Appreciate it.” She smiled, and he meant it. She was a better cook than he was by far, and honestly? Poor is the fool who turned down free food from a cute girl.

  She made to say something back, but instead it came out as a jaw-cracking yawn, which, after a moment to process it, left her a bit mortified as she blushed. “Any time, Danny. Now, it’s back to bed for me. I have another early morning tomorrow. You have a good night, okay?”

  “You too Rebecca. Don’t let the bedbugs getcha.” he said, as he began to turn, only for her to bring him up short.

  “Oh, and uh, I like the blueberry jam doughnuts too! Nite!” She said in a rush, before popping back into her apartment. The sound of a latch closing came through a moment later. Daniel just shook his head. Blueberry jam doughnuts huh? Someone had a sweet tooth.

  Heading back to his own room, he stashed the tupperware in the fridge, and headed to bed.

  The day hadn’t been bad. Not at all.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was a good end to a long week.