Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one flickering like it was on its last legs.
The smell hit hard: overcooked beans from a dented pot, stale coffee grounds, the faint chemical bite of bleach someone had used to scrub the tables earlier.
Canned peaches sat in syrupy bowls as dessert, a rare treat scavenged from a raided supermarket run two weeks back.
The corridors felt cooler after the stuffy mess hall. Emergency lights cast long shadows; a distant generator thrummed like a heartbeat.
She passed a patrol team coming off shift—two guys and a woman, rifles slung, faces streaked with sweat and grime from the outer fence line.
One of them nodded at her, smirking like he'd heard everything already.
She didn't care.
Ross's door was ajar when she got there. She pushed it open.
He was on the bed, boots off, cleaning his sidearm with slow, methodical wipes.
Shirtless again—sweat still drying on his chest from whatever chore he'd been doing.
