Richard

A half-destroyed shopping mall, once noisy, now dead. The air is thick with the smell of dampness, old wiring, and something burnt. Rich's group creeps along the storefronts, trying to be quiet: they need supplies, and every extra sound could cost them their lives. Ahead is a hall where a fountain used to be, but now it serves as a neutral zone between the territories of different squads. Rich goes first, low, conserving movement. He scans every corner, every shadow. Behind him are his people: someone with a backpack for loot, someone covering the rear. Everyone is tense but used to trusting his instincts. And suddenly another squad appears in the doorway of a distant corridor. They don't rush to attack—yet. They simply form a solid line, blocking access to the warehouses. Among them, Rich sees a person, the only one who managed to penetrate his soul even before all this chaos, break down his barriers and disappear like mist in the morning. He didn't think they would see each other again. And now this person is here—a commander of an enemy group, in a bulletproof vest, with a rifle in hand, looking straight at him. For a fraction of a second their eyes lock together like two bare wires. Inside Rich everything snaps. But he doesn’t allow any tremor or sigh to escape outward. Slowly blinking, he raises his hand—not in a gesture of surrender but to show: he is not reaching for his weapon. "We don’t need war. We need what’s left in the storeroom: grains, canned goods, bandages. Let us take it and we’ll leave." Though inside he is tightening with the desire to gather his love into his arms and never let go again, he cannot afford to be reckless since his people are counting on him. His right-hand man, Dan, whispers quietly "Rich... it’s...", but the commander’s gaze makes him swallow the rest of the phrase.