The night pressed in like a suffocating blanket, heavy with smoke and the faint iron tang of blood that clung to Ajay's nostrils even inside the ruined apartment. The group had claimed this half-collapsed structure as a temporary refuge. Cracked walls leaned at odd angles, window panes shattered, and the floor was littered with debris. Moonlight dripped through the fractured ceiling, spilling pale silver across the room like the accusing eye of some distant god.
Ajay sat with his back against the closet door, shoulders hunched, his body curled inward. The mask of weakness remained firmly in place: trembling hands clasped against his knees, shallow breaths punctuated by a suppressed whimper. To anyone watching, he looked pitiful—a man broken by terror, barely surviving by hiding like a rat in the walls. But inside, his mind was a knife, cold and honed.
*They swallowed it. Every single one of them.* The Protector with her bleeding compassion. The soldiers with their arrogant dismissal. They thought him harmless. A liability. Dead weight. *Good.*
He watched them through lowered lashes as the ex-military men began their low argument again.
"We can't keep bleeding like this," the older one muttered, running a hand through his cropped hair. "Two gone in one fight. Supplies down. Ammo's drying up."
"Then what? You want to drag this pack of civvies into another ambush?" the younger soldier snapped. He jabbed a finger at Ajay without even looking at him, disdain rolling off every syllable. "We can't afford to babysit strays."
Ajay lowered his gaze, letting his lips tremble. *Perfect.*
"He's alive. That means something," the Protector said, her voice soft but firm. "Every soul we can keep breathing… it matters."
"Sentiment doesn't feed magazines," the soldier snarled.
Ajay's inner voice was ice: *No. But it feeds mine.*
The conversation shifted, spiraling into the topic Ajay had been waiting for. The **Red Fangs**. A gang. A cult. A warband. Whatever they were, their crimson wolf fangs painted over temples and shrines, the blood-soaked banners that hung like trophies, declared them the new authority.
And the survivors were considering joining them.
---
A man with a clean, hard face approached their shattered building. He carried his rifle with professional ease, but his voice was unexpectedly calm. "Who's the leader in your group?"
The surviving soldier, Gyur, stepped forward, his jaw clenched. He held his empty rifle stoically, his body radiating discipline despite the blood that stained his shirt.
The newcomer smiled, a flash of white in the grime. His presence was strangely reassuring, the kind of man who looked like he belonged to an era before the world had fallen apart. "We're with the Red Fangs. We're creating a safe house for humans. Do you want to come? My name's Jeet."
Jeet spoke again, his tone smooth. "You've got injured, don't you? A child? Supplies won't last. With us, you'll get food, medicine, protection. The Red Fangs don't leave survivors to die. We're building something that lasts." He paused, then added like a gentle reassurance: "You don't have to be alone anymore."
But Gyur's jaw tightened. "The Red Fangs," he said carefully, "you're a gang."
Jeet chuckled softly, shaking his head. He adjusted his collar like a man straightening himself for a business meeting. "We were. Once. But gangs are chaos. And chaos doesn't build. What we are now is order. Military discipline, resource management, a chain of command. Think of us as… a foundation. The government's gone, soldier. Someone has to keep the civilians alive."
That word—*government*—struck something in Gyur. His knuckles whitened against his rifle as if the word had carved into his chest. His faith in the old order hadn't died, not completely.
Jeet leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. "What's your duty, soldier? To protect your country? Then protect what's left of it. Protect your family. We're not enemies—you'll see that if you come with us."
The air seemed to stretch taut. Ajay could almost feel Gyur's inner conflict, the pull between pride and reality.
Finally, Gyur exhaled. It wasn't surrender, not entirely. But it was a step. "If we come with you… how do we know you're not using us?"
Jeet's smile widened. "You'll know because you'll be free to leave. Anytime. No chains. No threats. Only protection. But for now," his voice hardened just enough to be felt, "show me your supplies."
The group stiffened. The mother clutched her child tighter. Gyur's voice was steel. "Why?"
Jeet's smile didn't fade. "Because safety isn't free. You killed last night, didn't you? Dogs, mutants… maybe a few zombies? Spoils belong to the group. That's our law. You contribute, you belong. Simple." His gaze flicked across them, sharp and calculating beneath the mask of civility. "It shows me you're serious. That you're willing to pull your weight."
Ajay's eyes narrowed. There it was—the teeth behind the smile. Not an offer. A test. Submission dressed as courtesy. And Jeet knew exactly how to package it so it didn't sound like theft. *Smart man. Dangerous man.*
Gyur hesitated, the wordless protest heavy in his throat. But then he looked at the mother, Nana, her face a mask of exhaustion, a child clutched in her arms. The child whimpered softly, a tiny crack in the stone. And the soldier knew. Pride wouldn't feed them. Pride wouldn't save them.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out the bloodied satchel they had scavenged. Inside were scraps of food, a few half-spent magazines of ammunition, and the twisted claws of the mutant dogs they had killed. Proof of survival, proof of strength. Proof of desperation.
Jeet examined it with the air of a man reviewing documents, not loot. He nodded once, satisfied. "Good. You'll do. Come. I'll take you to our base. We'll talk more there."
---
They traveled through Ajmer's broken veins, through shattered marketplaces and burned-out cars. Jeet walked like a man unhurried by danger, his back straight, his hands folded behind him as if leading a parade. Around them, other Fangs flanked the group, fifteen in total—armed, watchful, disciplined. Not the rabid chaos of a street gang, but something worse: **organized predators**.
When the college appeared, Ajay almost laughed at the irony. Once a place of learning, of youth and futures, it was now something else entirely. Banners painted with jagged red teeth hung from the gates. Makeshift barricades of steel and burned vehicles reinforced the entrance. Watchmen on the rooftops scanned the horizon with binoculars and rifles. It was not a gang's den.
It was a fortress.
Jeet stopped at the gates, turning with that same calm smile. "Welcome to the Red Base," he said. His voice carried pride, confidence, ownership. "Here, you'll find protection. Structure. A chance to live without fear. Follow the rules, and no one will touch you."
Inside the gates, they were led to a tall man in his forties, clean-shaven, with sharp, corporate eyes. Jeet gestured toward him. "This is Arvin, our handler for new blood. He'll explain the rules."
Arvin gave a polite nod, the kind that once might've been used in a boardroom. "Welcome," he said evenly. "You've survived long enough to earn a chance here. But understand—our base has structure. Our people follow rules. Obey, contribute, and you'll live well. Defy, and you won't. Simple."
His gaze swept across them, resting briefly on Ajay, whose trembling and dirt-smeared face seemed to disgust him. Arvin's lips thinned, but he said nothing. He raised a small, battered tablet.
"Tell me your highest stats," Arvin said, his voice clipped and efficient. "We'll find a perfect job for each of you."
Gyur spoke first. "My highest stat is Strength, 14. Agility 13, Intelligence 12."
Nana, the Protector, spoke next, her voice barely a whisper. "My highest is Strength 13, and 11 in Intelligence."
When Arvin's gaze fell on Ajay, he stammered, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I… I haven't killed any yet. My highest is Dexterity, 14."
Arvin looked him over like a piece of filth, then recorded the details. He didn't waste another moment on him, turning his attention back to the others. "You've noticed your temporary systems. Everyone here has. Level one, unstable, weak. You've survived, so you're candidates. Once you stabilize—ten kills, human or mutant—your System becomes permanent. At level ten, you'll be given a choice. Classes. Paths of power."
The mother stiffened, her hand tightening protectively around the child. Even Gyur's eyes darkened. The room felt heavier with that truth. Ajay listened in silence, his heart steady. He already knew most of this. But hearing it confirmed from within the Fang's walls was different. Ten kills. His ninth still fresh on his hands. One more, and the System would root inside him permanently. One more, and he'd step past the line.
**[Status Screen]**
**Name:** —
**Race:** Human
**Class:** None
**Level:** 1
**HP:** 100
**MP:** 50
**Strength:** 11
**Agility:** 13
**Dexterity:** 14
**Endurance:** 11
**Intelligence:** 12
**Free Stat Points:** 4
Ajay knew he could distribute his four points, knew what classes they would unlock. He had already experimented with how each stat affected the body. But he lowered his gaze further, his body trembling faintly, and thought with quiet clarity: *Not yet. Not here. Not in front of them.*
For now, he would stay hidden. For now, he would let them see a coward. Because in this fortress of predators, the one who survives longest isn't the one with the sharpest teeth.
It's the one no one bothers to notice.