The fourth morning after the world fell apart arrived without ceremony. No sunrise glow, no warmth breaking through the clouds, just a dull, heavy light that made the city look as if it hadn't slept either. People gathered early, filling the block before we had even opened the truck. Some whispered to each other. Others stood in silence, eyes fixed on the ground, ration slips held tight in pale knuckles.

  Four days of fear had aged them. Shoulders hunched. Movements sharp and tired at the same time. Their gazes kept drifting to doorways, rooftops, alleys, any place danger might step out from.

  Mikey stepped up beside me, blowing into his hands. “They look worse today.”

  “They were here before dawn,” I said. “Everyone is scared of missing their chance.”

  “And scared of something worse than hunger,” he murmured.

  He didn’t have to say what. The gunshot from yesterday still lived in the air. It had turned every loud noise into a threat.

  We were halfway through setting up tables when a deep engine rumble carried down the street. Mikey stiffened. A few civilians froze, heads turning toward the sound in a single motion.

  Seven black municipal vans rolled into view.

  The crowd reacted at once. Bodies tightened, conversations broke off mid-sentence, and a tired, brittle fear moved through the line like a ripple across dark water.

  Six enforcers stepped out of each van, falling into a polished formation, their boots striking the pavement in a practiced rhythm. Their gear was spotless, uniforms crisp, golden crown emblems gleaming in a way that felt wrong against cracked pavement and hollow-eyed civilians.

  The lead enforcer in front of the formation pulled out a megaphone before speaking into it. His voice would have carried in the complete silence even without the microphone as every eye stared in shock at the sudden show of force.

  “The mayor has declared Valen as his territory and will be named King Robert moving forward. We are the King’s enforcers and have been hereby authorized to execute the King’s will above all else. Any disagreements will be classified as Treason and those committing the act will be apprehended along with the rest of their family.” The leader passed the megaphone to one of the other enforcers before walking straight toward us, visor reflecting the barricades behind me in a warped curve. His voice came out flat, almost bored.

  “We are here for the morning allocation. King’s order” his voice was devoid of emotion.

  Mikey frowned. “Allocation of what?”

  “Ration crates,” the enforcer replied. “Compliance is mandatory.”

  My jaw tightened. “Families have been waiting since sunrise. We don’t have excess stock.”

  He stepped close enough that my own face stared back at me from his visor, tired, angry, held in check.

  “Prepare the crates,” he said again.

  Two of his men moved without waiting for any acknowledgment. They walked to the truck, slid open the back, and began selecting the fullest containers, the ones we had planned to distribute first.

  The crowd saw exactly what was happening. Voices rose in anxious waves.

  “They are taking our food.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “That crate was for the front of the line.”

  “My kids need that.”

  Mikey took a step forward. “You can’t clear us out. People need those.”

  The lead enforcer turned his helmet toward him with the smallest tilt, an angle that said the conversation was finished.

  “Stand down, Officer. Unless you intend to disobey the King’s order.”

  His hand settled lightly against his sidearm. The gesture was casual on the surface, but the message was clear enough.

  I kept my voice even. “Your office is stripping the district bare.”

  “We are securing stability,” he answered. “Your role is to assist. Not to question.”

  He turned away and helped his men load the crates into the van. The doors slammed shut with a heavy metallic thud, and the engines rumbled back to life. Civilians stepped backward as the vehicles pulled away, leaving behind an emptier street and a line full of people who suddenly looked a little more lost.

  Mikey watched the van disappear, disbelief calcifying into quiet frustration. “They took almost half of what we needed,” he said. “Elias, we can barely cover today maybe not even that.”

  “We will have to find more,” I replied.

  “Where? Stores are already running low.”

  “Check anyway. Ask. Negotiate. Tell them we will repay them when this stabilizes.”

  He stared at me for a long second, weighing how much he believed that promise. Then he nodded slowly. “Alright. I will try. Lang will come with me.”

  He jogged to meet Lang, both of them heading down the block toward the shops and markets.

  That left me standing at the barricade, facing a crowd that watched me like I held the world together with my bare hands. My own chest felt hollow. We had lost half our food before dawn. People were hungry enough to tremble in line. And the city’s leaders treated this district like a storeroom they could raid whenever they pleased.

  Frustration burned in my chest, hot and steady.

  I have to tell Chief about this.

  I turned and headed back into the station.

  Inside, the building felt too quiet. Every sound stood out sharply in the stillness. Chief Dobson’s office door was cracked open. The sound of ruffling papers bled into the hallway. He was already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee had steam rising in the air but remained untouched beside a scattered stack of reports.

  He looked older today, the weight on his shoulders more visible than usual.

  When he saw me in the doorway, he straightened slightly. “Elias. You look like you stepped in something disgusting.”

  “I did, Chief.” I closed the door behind me and sat. The chair creaked under my weight.

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  “Enforcers arrived at the barricade,” I said. “Three of them. Full tactical gear. They claimed the Mayor made himself King and they were his enforcers. They took multiple crates right off our truck.”

  His jaw tightened as I laid out the rest, their tone, the way they moved, how they chose the fullest crates, the way the crowd had begun to fray around the edges afterward. His face remained still, but something fierce flickered behind his eyes.

  When I finished, he let out a long breath. “I was afraid this would come to our doorstep.”

  “Sir,” I asked, “what are these guys? Where are they coming from?”

  He hesitated, just long enough for me to notice, then leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice, as if the walls might already be listening.

  “They are ex-military contractors,” he said. “All of them. A private security outfit run by the Mayor’s brother. Before everything went sideways, they were supposed to be temporary protection for the Mayor’s office.”

  His lips pressed into a thin line. “Once the Mayor declared himself king, those men became his personal army. They answer only to him. I suspect our little show of force a few days ago made him feel paranoid and alone.”

  A cold weight settled in my gut. “So this is deliberate.”

  “It is coordinated,” Chief confirmed. “And dangerous.”

  I leaned forward. “People are starving, Chief. If those men keep stripping supplies, the city will tear itself apart… again.”

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  “So what are we supposed to do? You saw the reaction yesterday. You know what happened this morning. If we push back, if we fight them…”

  Chief raised a hand.

  “Elias, listen carefully,” he said. “You and I both know that if it came to an actual fight, our officers who awakened as Players would crush those enforcers. That is not the problem that keeps me up at night.”

  He let the silence sit for a moment.

  “What scares me,” he continued, “is what it would look like to the city if the police suddenly used supernatural abilities against other humans.”

  He met my gaze, steady and unblinking.

  “We would win the fight,” he said. “But we would lose the people.”

  The truth of it sank in at once. Civilians would not see control or restraint. They would not see protectors making hard choices.

  They would see something else entirely.

  Walkers of the same streets turned into weapons.

  Men and women who could call power out of nowhere and use it on their own.

  His voice dropped further. “If word spreads that officers can tear a man apart with a skill, no one will trust us again. They will fear us more than they fear the enforcers.”

  My stomach tightened. “So you want us to avoid confrontation.”

  “I want you to understand the stakes,” he said. “If you fight them openly, you might save the people you want to protect but turn us all into the new enemies, especially in their eyes.”

  He rubbed his temple, as if trying to press back a headache. “This is new territory, Elias. There is no manual. No rulebook. I don't want a war between men who used to be neighbors and coworkers. I don’t want a war between Players and non-Players. I will not see civilians trapped between two forces they barely understand.”

  He looked at me again.

  “So we hold the line. We protect civilians. We do not escalate unless there is absolutely no other option. And we hope those enforcers don’t push us into a corner.”

  A heavy silence settled between us.

  “This city is afraid,” Chief said quietly. “If we start using our powers against other humans, we may never bring that fear under control again.”

  I nodded slowly. “Understood.”

  As I stood to leave, he added, “One more thing. You have good instincts, Elias. Lean on them. We need your head right now more than your sword.”

  Out in the hallway, the sounds of the station washed over me as if it had finally woken up. Officers talking in low voices. Someone coughing. Heavy boots striking tile. Beneath all of that, something deeper thrummed in the concrete, a pressure building under the surface.

  The enforcers were pushing the city toward a breaking point. And if we were ever forced to unleash the kind of power we now carried, the break would not be clean. It would tear through everything.

  By the time I returned to the barricade, the line had grown thicker. People shifted from foot to foot, ration slips clutched tight, eyes flicking to the empty spaces on our table with a growing sense of dread.

  Mikey still was not back. Minutes crawled by. Too many for there to be good news.

  I kept glancing toward the far end of the street, expecting him to appear. Only hungry civilians moved in and out of view, shoulders tight, heads down. That familiar itch started under my ribs, the one that warned me something was wrong.

  Then I finally saw him.

  Mikey jogged into view with Officer Lang at his side, but there was no relief in it. No hint of success. His shoulders were hunched, like he carried something he didn't know how to set down.

  He stopped in front of me, breath coming in rasps.

  “Elias…” He swallowed. “We have a problem.”

  “What happened?”

  “We tried every store,” he said. “Every little market. Even the family shops that always keep something hidden in the back. They all said the same thing.”

  Lang stepped in, his voice low. “They were emptied before we got there.”

  My chest tightened. “How? When?”

  Mikey wiped sweat from his forehead. “This morning. Same black vans that hit us.”

  My jaw went still. “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Mikey repeated. “They went door to door. Took everything. Every can. Every bag. Some places had fresh shipments dropped off last week. Gone. People begged to keep a little for their families.”

  “Did the enforcers let them?” I asked.

  “No,” Lang said. “They told them all food belongs to the King now.”

  Mikey’s voice roughened. “One store owner whispered that they pistol-whipped a man who argued. His own cousin. Over a loaf of bread.”

  A steady heat rose in my chest. Anger, focused instead of wild.

  “Did anyone help you?” I asked. “Any store offer anything at all?”

  Mikey shook his head. “They wanted to. You could see it in their faces. But they were terrified. Some of them asked us not to even mention their names.”

  He let out a breath. “The city is starving, Elias. And the enforcers are stripping it bare.”

  For a moment, the noise of the crowd dulled to a low buzz.

  I saw Lita and Atlas in my mind.

  I saw the mother who had asked if we were safe here.

  I felt the weight of the line behind me, people watching us like we were the last barrier between them and the abyss.

  We didn’t even have enough for this afternoon.

  I opened my mouth to respond when a brief chirp of a siren echoed behind us, the short, familiar call-sign between first responders.

  Mikey turned at once. “Wait… that is—”

  A fire engine turned the corner.

  Engine 4. Dusty, smoke-scarred, but still running.

  A crew rode in the cab and along the side, faces drawn but alert. The moment the truck slowed, a firefighter hopped down carrying two heavy plastic totes. A second climbed off the back with another.

  Mikey stared. “Theo… what are you doing here?”

  Theo set the totes on the table and pushed a hand through his dirty blonde hair. “Dropping off food.”

  “From your reserves?” Mikey asked, still catching up.

  “From the emergency supply,” Theo corrected. “Every station keeps a few tubs for long deployments or disasters. My chief agreed to transfer one set to you.”

  He flipped open the first tote.

  Inside were sealed firefighter field meals: high-calorie chili packs, oatmeal sleeves, instant rice, canned soups, electrolyte gels, peanut butter pouches. The kind of food meant to keep crews going through wildfires and building collapses.

  The kind of food that could keep families alive for another day.

  I only realized how tight my chest had been when I felt it ease.

  Mikey’s eyes shone with relief he didn't try to hide. “You have no idea how much this helps.”

  Theo managed a tired smile. “It helps because you two are out here keeping order. If the police line collapses, this neighborhood goes up in flames, one way or another. Brother or not, I am not sitting on my hands while that happens.”

  Mikey stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, hard hug. Theo returned it with one arm, the other still resting on the tote as if he were unwilling to let go of the food until it was in our hands.

  When they separated, Theo’s expression hardened.

  “You two need to know something,” he said. “The firehouses have seen those black vans too. They are clearing neighborhoods. They took supplies from a church pantry near us. They even tried demanding access to our storage closet. I figured the same thing happened here which is why we are here.”

  Mikey stiffened. “Did they get in?”

  “No,” Theo said. “Chief Henderson told them they needed a warrant. He also told them if they forced their way in, they would be trespassing on a federal building. They did not push it that time.”

  He paused, then added, “For now.”

  The implication sat heavy between us. The enforcers were testing boundaries, seeing what they could get away with, watching who pushed back.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”

  “Do not thank me,” Theo answered. “Thank the firefighters who gave up their backup meals. They said if you are feeding people, they want to help you feed them.”

  The civilians closest to the front watched with a mix of hope and disbelief. Their expressions shifted, just slightly, at the sight of firefighters bringing food when the Mayor’s men had taken it away. Shoulders loosened. Spines straightened. For a moment, the line remembered that not everyone with authority was against them.

  Theo clapped Mikey’s shoulder. “Keep your head up, little brother.”

  “You too,” Mikey said.

  Engine 4 rolled away, leaving a faint trail of diesel and smoke in the air.

  I looked at the totes on our table. Enough for maybe fifty more families. Not nearly enough for what the city needed. But enough to buy us another day.

  “Let us get ready to open,” I said quietly.

  Mikey let out a long breath. “One day at a time.”

  “One day at a time,” I echoed.

  We turned back to the line, to the waiting faces, to a city trying very hard not to break.