I closed the door behind us and leaned towards Harun's ear and whispered to him.

  "Go back. Get some rest. Or scout more. I need to talk to him. Alone."

  He frowned. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “This is the part where I’ll be blunt. Not that I wasn't blunt before, but you get what I mean?"

  He smiled, but he also hesitated, then gave me a small nod. “Don’t push too hard. You don’t need to scare him. Just… make him blink first.”

  “Exactly.”

  Then Harun was off. I turned and gave two knocks on a reinforced steel door with an old peeling nameplate that read “Admin 1 – M. Reiss” in fading vinyl.

  It opened halfway. Mason’s face appeared, surprised but not unfriendly.

  “Elliot.”

  “I want to talk,” I said. “Just us. No theater. No tag-team. One-on-one.”

  Mason studied me. “Alright.”

  He stepped back and let me in.

  I didn’t sit. I stood in front of his desk, hands loose, tone level.

  “No more pleasantries,” I said. “I’m not here to be impressed. I’m not here to smile and say thank you for the tour."

  Mason didn’t flinch. “Then why are you here?”

  “To ask one question,” I said. “One honest answer. That’s all I want.”

  He leaned back slightly. “Shoot.”

  “Why is this place really open to outsiders?”

  He blinked. The kind of blink that said "I knew this was coming, but it still hit harder than expected."

  “We broadcast because we need to,” he said.

  “Need isn’t a reason. It’s a mask.”

  “Okay.” He folded his hands. “Here’s the truth.”

  He nodded toward the window facing the mall bank's lobby and front reception, the blinds closed but humming with faint light.

  “This place? It’s stable. For now. But we don’t have enough people with the right skills. We’ve got good hearts. But not enough minds. Our mechanics are seventy. Our medic’s a former vet. And the ones who can lead? Most of them are dead. There was a time where we had talent. They all left.”

  “So you’re desperate,” I said.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  He nodded slowly. “We are. We just hide it well.”

  I said nothing for a second. Let that sit. Let the weight of it stack in the air like bricks.

  “You’re not a cult,” I said finally.

  “No.”

  “You’re not government.”

  “God, no.”

  “You’re not clean either.”

  “No one is anymore.”

  I met his gaze. “So what are you really, Mason?”

  He exhaled. “We’re survivors pretending to be a system. We’re the lie people want to believe. That something good made it out of the fire.”

  I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.

  Then I said, “Good answer.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I turned for the door. “We’ll talk again. Soon. But now I know what I needed.”

  “Elliot,” he called before I opened the door.

  I stopped.

  “Why’d you come back alone?”

  “Because lies like comfort,” I said. “But truth likes quiet.”

  And I left.

  ---

  The next day, I played nice.

  Gail would’ve hated it.

  Smiling, asking questions, joining conversations that weren’t mine. The kind of stuff that made my skin itch—but I did it anyway.

  I wasn’t looking for blood on the floor or dark secrets behind locked doors. I wasn’t looking for cult shrines, secret prisons, or a sinister god-king hiding behind a curtain.

  I was looking for what wasn’t there.

  The market looked full at first glance, stalls neatly set, tarps tied tight, canned goods stacked with just enough symmetry to look abundant.

  But after a second loop, I noticed the gaps. Empty shelves hidden behind clever placement. Fruit baskets filled with bruised or dried-out apples. A single bag of rice split between two vendors.

  I asked for a banana and got a laugh like I just told them I saw a unicorn.

  The supply closet in the apartment building, unlocked. Not because they were open. Because there was nothing worth locking.

  Just rows of empty metal racks. A single broom leaning like it was ashamed to still be here.

  The guards were armed, sure. But not well-fed. One of them, Clarence, I think, had a belt cinched so tight I saw the imprint of each loop. Still offered me a protein bar when he caught me looking. I took it. He smiled like I did him a favor.

  The survivors? Polite. Quiet. Tired. Helpful, but tired.

  There was no trade system. No currency. No ration tickets. No bartering.

  Just… people doing what they could, because doing something made the nothingness hurt less.

  A woman patched torn clothes for free in a corner of the mall. A kid swept the front of the market even though no one asked him to. An old man was carving little animals from wood, handing them out to passing kids.

  Everyone doing something, because if they stopped, they might have to admit how hollow it all felt.

  If they admitted to it, it felt light they're resigning to their fate.

  Mason’s words echoed in my skull:

  “We’re survivors pretending to be a system.”

  Yeah.

  That checked out.

  By sundown, I sat in one of the benches near the fountain, the fountain that hadn’t worked in a year, but still had “Out of Order” tape on it, like they planned to fix it someday.

  A teenage girl sat beside me with a plastic tray of dried vegetables. She offered me a carrot stick.

  “Thanks,” I said, and took one.

  “Are you staying long?” she asked.

  “Not sure.”

  She nodded like that made sense.

  “It’s not a bad place,” she said. “Just… tired.”

  I looked around. At the market with half a roof. At the flickering lights strung across the walls. At the people smiling through heavy eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tired sounds right.”

  ---

  I wrote it all down.

  Not in my usual messy shorthand. No. This time I took my time. Clear, legible. No tangents, no jokes scribbled in the margins.

  Just facts.

  Market shelves arranged to look full.

  ---

  No working trade system.

  No ration enforcement.

  Supply closet is basically a closet.

  Armed guards, underfed.

  Community running on vibes and volunteers.

  ---

  Mason didn’t lie. They are desperate.

  I stopped halfway through and stared at the page.

  Not “corrupt.” Not “hostile.” Not “secretly a cult.”

  Just tired.

  People running on fumes. Duct tape over bullet holes.

  When I finished writing, I slid the notebook into my backpack and made my way back to the apartment. It was late enough that the market lights were dim, and the guards had shifted to the night rotation, half as many, twice as twitchy.

  I knocked twice before entering. Harun was lying on the couch, still fully dressed, one sock halfway off his foot like he’d been debating sleep and lost halfway.

  He sat up and smiled when he saw me. “Hey. You look like you just solved a murder.”

  “Worse,” I muttered, shutting the door behind me. “I solved the mystery of this place.”

  He blinked, then chuckled under his breath.

  “Room wasn’t bugged,” I added, tossing my bag on the floor.

  Harun tilted his head. “You’re sure?”

  “They couldn’t afford to. I don’t think they even had enough working batteries for their own walkie-talkies.”

  He looked surprised for half a second, then just... nodded. Like it tracked.

  “You were right,” I said, sitting across from him. “They’re kind. They’re generous. But it’s all built on nothing. They’re one bad week away from collapse.”

  I saw the flicker of disappointment in Harun’s eyes. He really did want this place to be something better. Something real.

  “Does Mason know?” he asked.

  “Yeah. He’s not an idiot. He knows exactly how thin the rope is. That’s why they’re putting out broadcasts. While they're technically expanding, they're actually looking for capable people. Like us.”

  Harun sighed and leaned back on the couch. “Still better than the Unity Group.”

  “Yeah. But that’s a low bar.”

  We sat in silence for a while. The kind that didn’t need filling. Just breathing room between thoughts.

  Finally, I said, “We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Harun nodded again. “You want to tell Mason?”

  “I’ll write him a note.”