"Well, well," the scarred man said. "Looks like we found our solo idiot."

  Nate didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.

  The three of them had spread out slightly—not aggressive, but aware. The big man with the machete in the center, the woman with the knife to his left, the man with the pipe on his right.

  Then the scarred man laughed and raised his hands, palms out.

  "Easy, easy. That came out wrong." He lowered his weapons hand, letting the machete hang at his side. "We've been tracking those stalkers for hours. Didn't expect to find another person out here." He smiled—warm, friendly, not quite reaching his eyes. "Name's Garrett. This is Sara and Vince."

  The woman—Sara—relaxed her stance slightly. The man with the pipe—Vince—lowered it to his side.

  Nate didn't relax.

  "You're the one who's been clearing this floor," Garrett continued. "We've been trying to grind for days now, but there's barely anything left to kill. Figured someone had to be responsible." He shook his head, still smiling. "Didn't expect it to be one guy."

  "What do you want?" Nate asked.

  "Just to talk. Maybe team up, if you're interested." Garrett spread his hands. "Over a week in this tower, and you're the first friendly face we've seen. Gets lonely, you know?"

  Friendly. The word sat wrong in Nate's gut.

  "What level are you?" he asked.

  "Twelve. All three of us." Garrett's smile flickered slightly. "You?"

  "Fourteen."

  Silence. Sara and Vince exchanged a glance. Something passed between them—quick, subtle, gone before Nate could read it.

  "Fourteen," Garrett repeated. "That's impressive. Solo, too. You must be one hell of a fighter."

  "I get by."

  "More than that, from the look of it." Garrett took a step closer, and Nate tensed. The scarred man stopped, raised his hands again. "Easy. Just trying to have a conversation. We're all on the same side here, right? Climbers trying to survive?"

  Nate studied him. The smile. The easy posture. The way his eyes kept flicking to Nate's hands, his stance, his positioning.

  "Are you with the raiders?" Nate asked.

  Garrett frowned. "Raiders?"

  "Outside. The ones attacking survivor camps."

  Genuine confusion crossed Garrett's face. He looked at Sara and Vince, who both shrugged.

  "We've been in here over a week," Garrett said. "Haven't been outside since day five. Don't know anything about raiders." He tilted his head. "Things that bad out there?"

  "Bad enough."

  "Damn. Well, all the more reason to get stronger, right? Clear this tower, get whatever rewards are waiting at the top." Garrett's smile returned. "You know there's a boss, right? Fifth floor. Big payoff for whoever takes it down."

  "I know."

  "We were thinking—three of us, one of you, but you're two levels higher. We team up, split whatever we find. Better odds for everyone." He spread his hands again. "What do you say?"

  Nate didn't answer right away.

  Part of him wanted to believe it. Nearly two weeks alone in this tower, fighting, killing, surviving. The idea of having someone to watch his back, someone to talk to, someone who understood what this place was like—it was tempting.

  But something was wrong. He could feel it, the same instinct that told him when a stalker was about to lunge. Garrett's smile was too easy. Sara's eyes were too sharp. Vince's grip on his pipe was too tight for someone who was supposed to be relaxed.

  "I'll think about it," Nate said.

  Garrett's smile didn't waver. "Sure. Take your time. We're not going anywhere." He gestured to the ruined buildings around them. "You got a camp nearby? We could share a fire, trade information. Lot easier to talk when you're not standing in the middle of stalker territory."

  "I don't have a camp."

  "No? Where do you sleep?"

  "Different place every night."

  "Smart. Keeps you unpredictable." Garrett nodded approvingly. "We've been doing the same. Hard to relax, though. Always looking over your shoulder." He sighed. "Gets exhausting."

  He was still moving closer. Slow, casual, like he was just shifting his weight. But each shift brought him a step nearer. Sara and Vince were drifting wider, spreading the triangle.

  "That's close enough," Nate said.

  Garrett stopped. The smile stayed, but something flickered behind his eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Impatience.

  "Just being friendly," he said. "No need to be paranoid."

  "I've survived two weeks in here by being paranoid."

  "Fair enough." Garrett shrugged. "Look, I get it. Trust is hard to come by these days. But we're not your enemies. We're just trying to survive, same as you."

  Nate watched him. Watched all three of them.

  "What happened to your fourth?" he asked.

  Garrett blinked. "What?"

  "You said you've been in here three weeks. Started as a group. How many did you start with?"

  A pause. Just a fraction of a second, but Nate caught it.

  "Four," Garrett said smoothly. "We started with four. Marcus. He didn't make it past the first week. Stalkers got him."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "It happens." Garrett's voice was flat. Then the smile returned. "All the more reason to stick together, right? Strength in numbers."

  Nate didn't answer.

  The silence stretched.

  Garrett's smile finally cracked.

  "You know what?" he said, and his voice was different now. Harder. Colder. "I'm getting tired of this."

  He moved.

  The machete came out of nowhere.

  One second Garrett was standing with his hands at his sides, ten feet away. The next he was in Nate's face, blade already swinging, the movement so fast and fluid that Nate barely had time to react.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He twisted. Not fast enough.

  The machete caught him across the ribs, slicing through shirt and skin and muscle. Pain exploded along his side—hot, bright, immediate. He felt the blade scrape against bone before Garrett pulled it back.

  Nate staggered. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the stone.

  "Should've just said yes," Garrett said. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Would've made this easier for everyone."

  Sara and Vince were moving, closing in from either side. They'd been ready for this. Waiting for it.

  The whole thing had been a setup. The friendly approach, the conversation, the slow positioning—all of it just to get him off-guard, to get close enough for that first strike.

  And it had worked.

  Nate pressed his hand against the wound. Deep. The blade had cut through muscle, maybe nicked something important. He could feel blood pumping out between his fingers with every heartbeat.

  This was bad.

  "Level 14," Garrett said, circling slowly. "Doesn't mean much when you're bleeding out. We've done this before, you know. Found climbers, made friends, waited for the right moment." He twirled the machete lazily. "You lasted longer than most. Usually they buy the act right away."

  Sara was on his left, knife ready. Vince on his right, pipe raised. Garrett in front, blocking any retreat.

  Three on one. And he was already wounded.

  "Nothing personal," Garrett continued. "Just survival. You've got levels we need. Skills we can use. And dead men don't complain about sharing."

  Nate's vision blurred. Blood loss, already. He blinked hard, forced himself to focus.

  He couldn't run. Couldn't hide. Couldn't even defend properly with one hand pressed against his side.

  But he could still fight.

  Vince came first.

  He was the weakest link—nervous, eager, swinging before he was ready. The pipe whistled toward Nate's head in a wild arc.

  Nate ducked. The movement tore at his wound, sent fresh agony ripping through his side, but he got under the swing. His free hand shot up and grabbed Vince's wrist, yanking him forward, off-balance.

  Vince stumbled. Nate drove a knee into his stomach.

  The impact folded Vince in half, but it also sent a spike of pain through Nate's injured side. He gasped, nearly lost his grip, but held on. He pulled Vince closer and wrapped an arm around his neck, spinning him around.

  A human shield.

  Sara had been lunging in with her knife. She pulled up short, blade inches from Vince's back.

  "Move and he dies," Nate said.

  His voice came out weaker than he wanted. He could feel blood running down his leg now, pooling in his boot. The wound was worse than he'd thought.

  Garrett laughed.

  "You think I care about him?"

  He came in fast, machete high. Not going around Vince—going through him.

  Nate shoved Vince forward, into the path of the blade. The machete caught Vince across the shoulder, biting deep. Vince screamed and went down.

  But it bought Nate a second.

  He stepped inside Garrett's reach, too close for the machete to be effective. His fist found Garrett's throat—not a full punch, not with his strength fading, but enough to make him choke. Garrett stumbled back, gasping.

  Sara came from behind.

  Nate felt her more than saw her—that fighter's instinct screaming a warning. He spun, caught her knife arm, twisted. She was strong, stronger than she looked, and she didn't let go. The blade sliced across his forearm as they struggled.

  More blood. More pain.

  He couldn't keep this up. He was weakening with every second, every heartbeat pumping more of his life onto the cold stone.

  [Killing Intent].

  He let it loose. Not controlled, not aimed—just a wave of pressure rolling off him in every direction.

  Sara's eyes went wide. Her grip loosened for just a moment.

  Nate wrenched the knife from her hand and buried it in her stomach.

  She looked down at the handle protruding from her gut. Looked up at him. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  Nate pulled the knife free and she collapsed.

  Movement behind him. He turned, too slow, and Garrett's fist caught him across the jaw.

  The world spun. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs and sending fresh agony through his wounded side. The knife slipped from his fingers.

  Garrett loomed over him, machete raised.

  "Should've just died quick," he said. "Now I'm going to make it hurt."

  The blade came down.

  Nate rolled. The machete sparked against the stone where his head had been. He kept rolling, ignoring the pain, the blood, the weakness dragging at his limbs.

  He came up on one knee. Garrett was already swinging again.

  [Impact].

  Nate threw everything he had into a single punch. Not at Garrett's body—at the machete. His fist connected with the flat of the blade, and the multiplied force ripped it from Garrett's grip. The weapon spun away into the darkness.

  Garrett stumbled, off-balance. Nate rose.

  They faced each other. Garrett was unhurt, fresh, stronger by every measure that mattered in this moment.

  But Nate had something he didn't.

  He let [Killing Intent] pour out of him. Not a wave this time—a flood. Everything he had, all the pressure he could muster, focused directly on the man in front of him.

  Garrett's face went pale. His legs trembled. For a moment—just a moment—he couldn't move.

  Nate closed the distance.

  His first punch broke Garrett's nose. The second cracked ribs. The third, fourth, fifth—he lost count. He just kept hitting, kept swinging, kept driving his fists into flesh and bone until Garrett wasn't standing anymore.

  Until Garrett wasn't moving anymore.

  Until Garrett wasn't breathing anymore.

  Nate collapsed beside the body.

  The [Killing Intent] faded. The adrenaline faded. Everything faded except the pain.

  He lay on the cold stone, one hand pressed against the wound in his side, and watched the crimson sky pulse overhead. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, in his throat, in the gash that was still pumping blood between his fingers.

  He was dying. Maybe. Probably.

  A sound made him turn his head.

  Vince was still alive. Crawling across the stone, leaving a trail of blood from the machete wound in his shoulder. He was trying to reach the pipe he'd dropped.

  Nate watched him crawl.

  He should finish it. Should drag himself over there and end it before Vince could become a threat. That's what a survivor would do. What a predator would do.

  What he would have to do, if he wanted to live.

  But he was so tired. So empty. The blood loss was making everything hazy, distant, like he was watching himself from far away.

  Vince's fingers closed around the pipe.

  Nate moved.

  He didn't know where the strength came from. Some reserve he didn't know he had, some final burst of survival instinct that refused to let him die here. He crossed the distance in a stumbling lunge and brought his fist down on the back of Vince's skull.

  Once. Twice.

  Vince stopped moving.

  Three bodies.

  Nate sat in the street, back against a crumbling wall, and looked at what he'd done.

  Garrett's face was unrecognizable—a ruin of blood and shattered bone. Sara was curled around the knife wound in her stomach, eyes open, staring at nothing. Vince lay face-down in a spreading pool of crimson.

  Three people. Dead. Because of him.

  He waited to feel something. Guilt. Horror. Satisfaction. Anything.

  But there was only emptiness. A hollow space where emotion should have been.

  He'd killed them. He'd had to kill them—they would have killed him if he hadn't. Self-defense. Survival. The only choice he could have made.

  But he'd still done it. Still felt their bones break under his fists. Still watched the life leave their eyes.

  He was a killer now. Not just of monsters. Of people.

  The thought should have meant something. Should have changed something inside him.

  Maybe it had. Maybe that's why he felt so empty.

  He didn't know how long he sat there.

  Long enough for the bleeding to slow. Long enough for the level-up warmth to finally come.

  Experience gained.

  Level Up! Level 14 → Level 15

  The warmth flooded through him, stronger than before. He felt his wound begin to close—not fully, not all the way, but enough. The bleeding stopped. The torn muscle knit together, leaving raw new scar tissue beneath his blood-soaked shirt.

  He checked his status with shaking hands.

  Name: Nate Rowe

  Level: 15

  Grade: E

  Class: Enforcer (Grade D)

  Stats:

  Strength: E

  Speed: F

  Durability: F

  Perception: F

  Willpower: E

  Skills:

  [Impact] — E

  [Pressure] — E

  [Killing Intent] — F

  Strength had jumped from F to E. A threshold. The System recognizing that he'd grown—that he'd become something more than he was.

  Something more.

  He looked at the bodies again.

  They'd killed before. Garrett had admitted as much. They would have killed again. He'd stopped them. Ended the threat. Done what needed to be done.

  So why did he feel like he'd lost something?

  Nate closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

  He stayed there until dark fell over the ruins.