The rugged canvas pack clinked faintly as Naomi slung it over her good side. She tugged at the strap, making sure it sat right. Inside, the gems they’ve scavenged over the past three weeks were assorted by color, wedged neatly into the partitions.

  The others began gathering in the common area, finishing their breakfast and getting ready.

  Half an hour later, they assembled outside the bunker, lining up like ants drawn by hunger and habit. Together, they moved toward the dome-like establishment by the walls opposite the gates. From other bunkers, more groups headed in the same direction. They didn’t need to be told twice. Since it was rationing day, the day gems pried from the dead became food.

  Inside the dome, the air was cooler. Steel-plated walls and floors, and at the center, a long counter separated them from the clean-booted men who handled the exchange, the Raktans. They wore a different uniform from the government soldiers’ usual black. It was a dark blue-green, beneath clean, gray boots.

  Four lines formed, one for each manned station.

  Naomi stood just behind Fran, and behind her was Gun, a burly man despite being on the shorter side, in his late thirties, with two silver front teeth. Tattooed from his arms to his neck, with hair combed back in place by what Naomi could only assume was water. He breathed too close, hot on her nape.

  Naomi turned, glaring. “Move back, will you?”

  Fran glanced over his shoulder.

  “What happened to your arm?” Gun asked, his voice hoarse and low, moving a small step back.

  “Locusts,” Naomi answered flatly.

  “That wouldn’t have happened under my supervision, you know. You and your group could live with us,” Gun said, smirking as his eyes roamed over her.

  Naomi gave a thin smile. “What?” She almost scoffed. “No thanks.”

  Gun chuckled. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Like one big family.”

  Naomi knew Gun’s bunker was the biggest, both in space and in the number of people it held. Sure, they hoarded more gems, but they lacked any real closeness. They might have been more efficient some weeks, but she knew they’d never be family like the one she had now.

  Before she could reply, Fran stepped in, placing himself between them. He locked eyes with Gun, who was a few inches shorter. “If you’ve got something to say, you can say it to me.”

  Gun clicked his tongue as the line began to shuffle forward.

  Naomi ignored him, rocking slightly on her boot as the line crept closer to the counters. Fran didn’t take his eyes off Gun until there was a full body’s space between them. Only then did he face forward to Naomi.

  “You shouldn’t talk to him,” Fran murmured.

  “What? I did nothing wrong.”

  “You know how suspicious that man is,” Fran shook his head, “One of these days, you’re going to talk yourself into trouble.”

  “One of these days,” she echoed, “but not today.”

  Fran flicked her ear from behind, and she rubbed it, turning to glare at him.

  The line thinned ahead of them. Naomi tugged the strap of her satchel higher, feeling the gems press into her side. Their turn was next.

  When the pair reached the counter, the clerk barely looked up, his face pale under the light. A ledger sat open in front of him, columns and rows of numbers and ration marks filled in with neat handwriting.

  “Satchel,” the clerk said, extending a gloved hand.

  Naomi slid it onto the counter. The man unbuckled it with a snap, spreading its contents with a small metal rake. Gems clattered across the steel surface, refracting different colors.

  He sifted through them, eyes flicking between colors, separating them, shining a small UV light on each, before weighing each handful of the same color on a scale. Every so often, he would mark something in the ledger.

  Fran stood still, arms crossed, silent as a wall. Naomi, meanwhile, drummed her fingers on the counter, watching the clerk with narrowed eyes.

  “How long does it take to count shiny rocks?” she muttered under her breath.

  “Be patient,” Fran replied.

  “I can’t help it. I feel like we’re over quota.” She grinned.

  The clerk didn’t respond, though his brow twitched. Finally, he gathered the gems into a separate pouch, cinched it tight, and set a ration card on the counter.

  Naomi snatched it up and scanned the lines, her brows knitting deeper with every word.

  “Three weeks' worth?” Her voice rose, sharp enough to draw a few glances from the other lines. “We had enough for four.”

  “You’re short two counts for the fourth,” the clerk replied without looking up.

  Naomi slapped her palm against the counter. “We had storm blues. That’s worth three by itself—we should be over quota.”

  “You were two counts over, yes, but you also submitted defective fire reds,” the man said evenly, his tone bored. “That brings you four down, so two counts short.”

  “Defective?” Naomi froze, jaw tightening as she replayed the haul in her head. She knew he was twisting numbers, but couldn’t prove it without the gems in front of her.

  “Next,” the man called flatly, already reaching for the next satchel.

  “Give them back,” she said, reaching for the pouch of gems still sitting beside the ledger. “Let me check for myself.”

  The clerk’s hand darted out faster than expected and slapped her hand away. The sound echoed sharply.

  Naomi hissed, snatching her hand back. “You—”

  Before she could lunge again, Fran grabbed the man by the hand, clamped onto his shoulders, and shoved him hard against the counter.

  The man’s pencil snapped under his own weight, his ledger sliding off the table.

  The air in the room shifted. Boots scraped. From the corners of the room, weapons lifted.

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  Naomi’s head whipped around.

  Four guards had their guns leveled, one at Fran’s chest, another sweeping between her and the line behind them. The other two moved from the flanks, their boots clicking softly against steel.

  “Hands off,” one of the guards barked.

  Fran didn’t move. His fingers still dug into the clerk’s shoulder.

  “HANDS OFF, OR WE’LL SHOOT!”

  “Fran,” Naomi muttered sharply, low enough for only him, and slowly shook her head.

  He looked at her as the barrels trained on him. Finally, with a slow breath, Fran released the clerk, who stumbled back and straightened his collar with trembling hands.

  Naomi flexed her stinging knuckles, glaring at the man behind the counter.

  “Next,” he croaked, louder than before, his voice carrying the smug safety of someone shielded by guns.

  The line moved forward, as if everyone wanted to pretend nothing happened. Naomi shoved their ration card deep into her pocket. Fran stayed close to her shoulder, both of them silent as they drifted to the side where their group was, ready to collect their rations.

  The room thinned out over the next stretch of minutes. Bunker after bunker finished their turn, exchanged for pouches of gems, and slowly the crowd began to thin by the counter, and everyone received their food.

  Then a voice rang out in the room.

  “Attention. The following names that will be called, please stay behind.”

  “Naomi, Fran, Jonas, Alvarez, Hesh, Daya.”

  Naomi’s head snapped toward the sound. A different clerk stood near the end of the counter, a thin man with a clipboard in hand. He scanned the room once more, ticking names as people looked up.

  “You six, stay behind. Everyone else, you can go.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Their group exchanged uneasy looks. The others took their ration parcels and walked out the doors in silence, casting glances back at Naomi, Fran, and Jonas, eyes silently hoping they’d be alright.

  Soon, the room felt far too big. Naomi crossed her arms, watching the clipboard man.

  “What’s this about?” Fran asked

  The man didn’t look at him. He kept writing, as if his voice was just background noise. Only when the last of the crowd had gone did he lift his head.

  “You six,” he said, “follow me.”

  Jonas gave a sideways look to Naomi and Fran, his brow furrowed, but moved anyway. Fran lingered half a beat, then followed. Naomi stayed rooted for a moment longer, then clicked her tongue and strode after them.

  The armed guards hadn’t left either. Their presence lingered like shadows, rifles held at ease but still very much ready.

  “Is this about earlier?” Naomi whispered to the two.

  They were led into a conference room—a wide, windowless space lit by strips of light along the ceiling. The air smelled of metal and stale coffee. A long table dominated the center, its surface bare except for a few scattered folders and a pitcher of water with untouched glasses. The chairs around it were steel-framed, padded just enough to make sitting tolerable.

  The six of them were guided to one side, seated close together, the guards fanning out along the walls. The opposite seats remained conspicuously empty, as if reserved for someone of higher importance.

  A woman in a dark coat stepped through the doorway, boots polished to a shine that looked out of place against the steel floor. She walked with unhurried grace, her posture was relaxed but commanding.

  “Winslet,” Jonas muttered under his breath, recognizing her.

  Naomi knew the name, but it was her first time seeing her. The way the guards straightened told her enough.

  Winslet stopped a few paces in front of them, folding her hands neatly behind her back. Her voice was smooth, warm, and almost effortless.

  “Congratulations.” She scanned each of them in turn. “You’ve all been selected as our zone’s delegates.” Her gaze lingered on Naomi before she went on.

  “And we have an offer.”

  She sat across from them. “If you are willing to go south to Victoria City, I’ll see to your bunkers myself. Full rations, regardless of how many gems your bunker scrapes together.”

  Fran’s brow furrowed. “So you’re asking us to leave, and in return, our people get fed. Even if they don’t meet quota?”

  Winslet’s lips curved faintly. “Exactly. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

  “What kind of work?” Alvarez asked, a young man in his twenties, with tanned skin and curls hanging limp over sunken eyes.

  Winslet picked up a folder from the table and opened it. “We have started a very special project. One that aims to restore the continent to healthy land.” She paused, letting the words settle. “To do that, we intend to kill the fungi’s mother network. Your role would be related to mapping its underground systems and gathering samples and other information. Nothing more complicated than that.”

  Small gasps escaped the six, and murmurs of questions followed.

  Winslet raised a hand, and silence returned. “I know you’re curious. But that’s all I can share here. The rest will be explained by Roderic once you arrive in the south.” Her smile softened, almost reassuring. “You will be compensated fairly. And you will be remembered for what you do.”

  They exchanged uneasy glances, apprehensive of every word that the woman had said.

  Naomi’s first instinct was to say no. She wasn’t sure about having her name in their hands, bound up in files like worker ants. She knew that if they made one mistake, it would be over. Raktans never gave people second chances after all. And most importantly, her sister. She didn’t want to leave her alone.

  Alvarez and Daya, who were from the same bunker, shared an excited smile. “We’ll go. We’ll inform Gun and prepare for it.”

  “I’m also on board,” Hesh said.

  Winslet acknowledged them with a pleased nod before turning her attention back to Naomi’s group, waiting for an answer.

  Naomi hesitated. Despite everything, she couldn’t ignore what the offer meant: steady food for her bunker. She couldn’t pass up on the opportunity. And answers. A part of her suspected this was the same project from three years ago. The one that had taken her father south.

  There was a moment of silence before Naomi finally said, “We’ll g—”

  “No,” Fran cut in.

  Naomi shot him a look. “Fran—”

  But Winslet didn’t flinch. She studied Fran with the calm patience of someone used to resistance.

  “You should think about it,” she said gently.

  “There’s nothing to think about,” Fran replied.

  Winslet’s smile thinned, not quite fading. “You should. And perhaps consider this.” She tilted her head slightly. “The required gems for the fourth dozen. Free.”

  At her gesture, a clerk stepped forward and placed a wrapped parcel into Naomi’s arms. Another week’s worth.

  The weight startled her. Naomi blinked down at it, unsettled by how easily it was handed over.

  Winslet rose smoothly. “Take it home. Eat well. When you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.”

  They were dismissed soon after, released back into the thinning daylight outside the dome.

  Outside, Naomi adjusted the extra parcel against her hip as they walked.

  Jonas broke the silence first, voice low but eager. “What’s the reason for turning them down at the get-go?”

  “Did you want to leave the bunker?” Fran asked flatly.

  Jonas couldn’t answer.

  Naomi looked at Fran. “I think it’s the same offer. From three years ago. The one your uncle took. Marcella’s husband. My dad. Maybe even my mom. To go south and help with the desert’s… cure.”

  “We don’t know that,” Jonas said. “None of them told us.”

  Fran’s stride never faltered. He reached over and took the parcel from Naomi without a word. She let him.

  “If we think about it,” Jonas went on carefully, “it’s not a bad deal. A whole bunker secure for life. No more scraping. No more short counts. You can’t tell me you’re not tempted.”

  Fran shot him a warning look.

  Jonas lifted his hands. “I’m just saying. It’s security. What do you think, Nao?”

  Naomi released a long exhale. “Let’s think about it.”

  Winslet’s words hung in the air, tempting and heavy all at once. Transfer cities. Gems covered. Full rations. It was a kind of offer people fought over, or killed over, yet she delivered it like casual kindness.

  Naomi looked at the ration that Fran carried, her father’s voice returning like an echo: Nothing comes for free.

  “Nothing ever does,” she murmured.