The camp did not settle quietly. It settled like two storms deciding to share the same horizon.
Snow Team's fire burned strong and steady between the broken brick shells of two storefronts. Meat sizzled over iron racks that Ivan had pulled from Victor's space without ceremony. Vegetables roasted in foil, fragrant with dried herbs that Ash had insisted on keeping months ago. Fruit sat sliced and bright in a shallow metal tray, juice glistening in firelight like something from a different world.
Across the open stretch of cracked pavement, Emma's group kept a smaller flame that struggled against the wind. Their food was hard and dry, the kind that scraped against teeth and left no warmth in the belly. Dented cans. Stale ration bars. Old jerky that snapped instead of bent.
The contrast was not subtle.
It was not accidental.
