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*****
Sydney's body shook with rage, her face flushing crimson. "You filthy bastard!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "You're a shameless, disgusting pigmerken! You've got no humanity left!"
Her curses felt clumsy, raw, the words of someone unpracticed in venom but burning with fury.
Sydney received a good education, and with her career, she never needed to curse anyone.
The militant chuckled, low and mocking, his gaze crawling over her again. "Oh, you bark loud for a pampered bitch," he taunted, tapping his rifle against his shoulder. "Keep yapping, and Daddy'll have to bend you over and spank that pretty ass raw till you learn respect." He winked, his grin vile enough to churn her stomach.
"How can there still be scum like you in this world?" Sydney spat, her voice trembling with defiance. "Stealing food from children—where's your soul?"
"Soul?" He snorted, spitting into the dirt. "Don't need one when I got this." He hefted his rifle, then turned lazily, his laughter echoing like a hyena's as he sauntered off, leaving Sydney fuming in the courtyard's dust.
Her hands balled into fists as she sat back down, her jaw tight. "What kind of place is this?" she muttered bitterly. "How can people live like this… how can there be such disgusting animals still breathing?"
Across the table, Luna gave a dry, hollow laugh. "Bandits, maybe worse," she said softly. "This isn't a refuge, Sydney. We're in a den of thieves… maybe a den of monsters."
"No," said Maya, her voice small and trembling. "This is worse than that… this is a den of scum."
Fear clouded her eyes. "What will happen to us?" she whispered, glancing toward the armed men outside. "If they treat children like that, what will they do to us?"
In this new world, humanity's rules had vanished. Women were no longer protected—they were prizes, trophies, tools. The concept of equality had been buried long ago, rotting along with civilization. From the difference in their meals alone, it was obvious that Tiger's camp didn't see women as people, only as property.
Julia tried to smile, though her lips quivered slightly. "Don't be afraid," she said softly. "Big Brother Ethan will think of something. He always does."
Her faith in Ethan was unwavering, almost radiant. It gave her strength, even in this pit of despair.
"The presence of Grace, Luke, and especially Ethan ensures our safety," Olivia said, though her tone carried a shadow of envy. Her gaze lingered on Julia—on the way Ethan's eyes softened when Julia spoke. Olivia could tell Ethan cared for her more than the others. And in this world, affection was protection.
If danger came, she knew who would be saved first—and who would be left behind.
The women exchanged quiet, uneasy looks. Only Grace and Julia seemed composed, their calm giving the others a fragile sense of stability. But the rest, especially the newer ones like Sarah, were drowning in quiet despair.
Sarah sat apart, her arms wrapped tightly around her small daughter. Her eyes darted nervously between the soldiers and her companions. She hadn't known Ethan for long, hadn't shared the battles, blood, or time that bound the others. Every time she looked at him, her heart filled with both hope and dread.
She wanted to believe he would protect them. But a voice deep down whispered that if the moment came, she and her child would be the first to be left behind.
The fear ate at her like a slow poison.
Arriving at this village—this false haven—had only made it worse. The laughter of men with guns, the cries of hungry children, the smell of rot and sweat in the air—it all painted a clear picture. Civilization had not died because of the zombies. It had died because of men like these.
---
Inside, under the flickering glow of an oil lamp, Ethan sat with Tiger and the others at the table. He ate quietly, expression unreadable. The white-cut chicken, the stir-fried vegetables, and the sautéed mollusks on the table were delicacies now. Food that, before the fall, would have been ordinary.
In the ruins of the world, they were treasures.
He ate without hesitation, because refusing food here would draw suspicion—and because he needed the strength. The taste of the chicken reminded him faintly of the meals he once had.
Now, even this feast felt bitter.
When the plates were nearly bare, only three white steamed buns remained in the large bowl. Two women entered, their beauty startling against the drab walls. They wore worn yet neatly cleaned dresses, their faces lightly powdered to hide exhaustion. They silently cleared the dishes, their movements graceful yet mechanical—like dolls programmed to serve.
Only the three buns remained.
Tiger leaned back in his chair, grinning. His thick fingers drummed on the wooden table. "Little Brother Ethan," he said in a cheerful tone that didn't reach his eyes, "to celebrate our new friendship, let me offer you a gift."
He clapped his hands. "You girls, come in!"
Ethan's brows twitched slightly, his gaze shifting toward the door.
Moments later, six young women entered from the courtyard. Each wore makeup—faded lipstick, pale powder, eyeliner smudged from tears. Despite their painted beauty, their eyes were hollow. They moved in silence, heads bowed, and knelt gracefully in front of Tiger and Lei Chen, pressing their delicate hands to the men's boots and calves, massaging them like obedient pets.
A thick, heavy silence filled the room.
William stared, his disbelief plain. These women were stunning—even in their broken state. Before the fall, men would have lined up to court them, showering them with compliments and flowers. Now, they knelt in the dirt, their dignity stripped away.
Tiger sighed in satisfaction, closing his eyes as one of the women pressed her fingers into his legs. "Beautiful, aren't they?" he said lazily. "Hard to find such treasures in times like these. Even harder to keep them obedient."
Ethan's eyes glinted faintly, unreadable.
William could hardly believe what he was seeing. The scene before him made his stomach twist — it was pitiful, almost unbearable. Yet deep inside, he knew there was nothing he could do. In this ruined world, pity had no currency. Mercy was a luxury few could afford.
Tiger glanced toward Ethan and let out a coarse chuckle, his voice gruff yet amused.
"Little brother Ethan," he said, grinning as if he were offering a favor, "out of these women, which one do you fancy? They're not much use for work, but they know how to keep a bed warm and play their roles. You might as well enjoy yourself."
Ethan's eyes flicked over the six women kneeling before Tiger. They were beautiful in their own right — beautiful faces framed by tangled hair, gorgeous figures that would have once turned heads on any street. Yet their beauty now seemed like a ghost of what once was. Their expressions were hollow, their eyes dull and vacant, reflecting no light, no spark, no will. It was as if their souls had been scraped clean, leaving behind nothing but obedient shells. They were living corpses trapped in the bodies of gorgeous women — beautiful, yet utterly broken.
A subtle disgust stirred in Ethan's chest. He could see the story written across their faces: pain, loss, surrender. Once they might have been proud daughters, wives, or lovers. But in this world ravaged by the dead and ruled by the cruel, even the living were often worse off than corpses.
Ethan turned his gaze toward Tiger and said calmly, "You should not covet your friend's wife. There are unspoken rules among men — a brother's wife, girlfriend, sister, or even his closest cousin is off-limits. Brother Tiger, these women are all yours. How could I take what belongs to you?"
Tiger laughed, though his smile did not reach his eyes. He gave one of the kneeling women a sharp kick, sending her sprawling. "You're too polite, little brother," he said with false cheer. "I know these women aren't as beautiful as the ones who follow you — your women, now they're like goddesses! But these girls… they're obedient."
He turned toward a woman in a tight crimson cheongsam, her figure sinuous, her makeup faded but still enough to hint at her former allure. "Elisa," Tiger barked. "Go and properly serve Ethan. Today, he is your master. If you don't make him comfortable, I'll throw you into the henhouse."
At that single word — henhouse — the color drained from Elisa's face.
She crawled forward on trembling hands and knees, stopping before Ethan. Her movements were graceful despite the trembling of her limbs. She lowered her head, the soft fabric of her dress brushing the dusty floor, and she pressed her lips toward Ethan's boots.
But Ethan drew his foot back before she could touch him. A deep frown carved across his face. The gesture — the submission, the forced devotion — disgusted him. There was nothing beautiful about being worshiped through fear. It didn't feel like respect; it felt like degradation.
He wasn't some tyrant to be adored through terror. To him, intimacy was meant to be mutual, a bond built on warmth, on curiosity, on the electric thrill of shared desire — not this hollow act of survival. Seeing a woman forced into such humiliation made his skin crawl.
Elisa's body stiffened as he withdrew. She glanced up, panic flickering in her wide, tear-filled eyes, then turned toward Tiger, silently pleading.
The Henhouse in Always Bright Village is a festering den of raw, unrelenting whoredom—a squalid fuck-pit where broken cunts are chained and rented out like meat on a hook to every sweat-drenched, cock-throbbing militant in the ranks.
These ravaged women, their holes stretched and weeping from endless pounding, must spread wide and take it all: not just brutal, vein-bulging rape-sessions that leave them bruised and leaking cum in thick, sticky ropes, but every twisted, vomit-inducing, blood-soaked perversion those savage bastards can dream up in their fevered skulls.
Gut-churning fetishes that'd make a corpse gag—militants shoving fists elbow-deep into slick, torn pussies until they squelch and fart blood; cramming throbbing shafts down throats till eyes bulge and vomit sprays in hot, chunky arcs; carving initials into quivering tits with rusty blades while rutting like rabid dogs, painting the walls with crimson splatter and jizz; forcing these cum-dumpsters to lap up piss from overflowing buckets, or worse, shitting on their faces and grinding it in like filthy war paint before skull-fucking them into oblivion.
Gore-drenched orgies where limbs get hacked mid-thrust, entrails used as lube for double-anal invasions that rip assholes into gaping, prolapsed craters—nothing's off-limits in this hellhole of depraved kink-fulfillment.
And the starvation? These pathetic fuck-toys are force-fed nothing but watery slop-soup—thin, piss-warm broth laced with scraps of rot—and lumpy gruel that sticks to their cracked lips like cum-glue, barely enough to keep their emaciated bodies twitching for the next gangbang.
If slaving under Tiger means a grinding existence of spit-soaked degradation and bone-deep agony—at least with full bellies from his scraps and limits to his cruelty, never plunging into the abyss of his underlings' necro-fetish nightmares—then rotting in the Henhouse is a fate worse than being a lifeless, cum-crusted sex-doll, endlessly inflated and defiled in an ocean of mutilated lust, every hole a perpetual fountain of filth, pain, and shattered screams.
Compared to that, serving Tiger was mercy. With him, at least there was food, and perhaps the occasional moment of safety. The thought alone was enough to break anyone's mind.