Back with the group, Veronica looked at Steven with a meaningful smile.
It wasn't admiration.
It wasn't surprise.
It was understanding.
She already knew why he had ignored their earlier agreement to remain low-key.
The faint scent of blood still lingered in the air behind them, mixing with the dry, metallic taste that always seemed to cling to the settlement's atmosphere.
Smoke drifted lazily overhead from crude chimneys. Somewhere in the distance, something screamed — not loudly, not urgently — just another background sound of survival.
One noticed the look Veronica gave Steven but didn't understand its meaning.
His brows furrowed slightly.
Veronica caught the confusion in his eyes and leaned closer, her boots crunching lightly over gravel and dried bone fragments embedded in the dirt.
"You're wondering why he made such a brutal show of it?" she asked quietly.
One nodded.
Around them, mutants pretended not to stare — but they were listening. Always listening.
Veronica glanced at the surrounding figures — at the cautious way others avoided brushing too close to Steven now, at the subtle widening of space wherever he stepped.
"In the wastelands," she said calmly, "you don't blend in by being quiet."
A faint wind passed through the settlement, carrying the smell of rust, sweat, and something faintly rotten.
"You blend in by being dangerous."
One remained silent.
Veronica's voice lowered slightly.
"There's no mercy here. No rules. No fairness. If you look weak, you'll be tested. Again and again. Small provocations. Reckless probes. Annoying nuisances. People measuring you… seeing how much they can take."
Her gaze flickered back toward the bloodstained pavement they had left behind.
"What Steven did… was show them our sharp edge."
Understanding slowly dawned across One's face.
"He just prevented future problems," Veronica concluded.
Steven continued walking ahead, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. As if he never heard them, he gave no sign.
The group moved toward the center of the settlement, searching for whoever was in charge — one of the Heat Emperor's generals.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air felt.
The settlement was alive — but not in a healthy way.
It pulsed with tension.
Mutants moved quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes sharp. Some bore animalistic features — elongated ears twitching at every loud sound, tails swaying low in agitation, claws clicking faintly against stone. Others had harsher mutations — exposed bone ridges, glowing pupils, uneven limbs that dragged against the ground.
Bartering voices overlapped in rough tones.
Metal scraped against metal.
A child coughed violently somewhere nearby.
A pot clanged to the ground.
The smell of smoke thickened.
Then—
A loud wail cut through everything.
High.
Broken.
Raw.
The sound sliced through the settlement like a blade.
Nearby mutants instinctively shifted toward it, curiosity pulling them closer. Not concern.
Curiosity.
Steven's group exchanged a brief look before following the sound.
At the center of the settlement, a small crowd had formed.
A family of two stood at its center.
A father.
And his daughter.
The father's face was clouded with despair and fear, his shoulders shaking as if the weight of the world pressed directly onto his spine. Dirt streaked across his cheeks. His lips trembled.
The daughter — around fourteen to sixteen years old — had fox-like ears and a tail.
In the early days after the pollution, those features would have drawn admiration.
Now they were dulled by grime.
Her fur was matted.
Her clothes hung loosely from her thin frame.
Tears carved clean lines through the dirt on her face as she wailed, voice cracking from hours of crying.
Steven's group overheard nearby whispers.
"The Peters family…"
"They finally saved enough…"
"They bought one…"
A nearby mutant spoke in a detached tone.
"They got an abomination head earlier today from scavengers. Used blood coins. Took them almost a week."
Another shook his head.
"And now it's missing."
The father had been searching for hours.
Under crates.
Inside broken shacks.
Even digging through refuse piles with bare hands.
Nothing.
Tomorrow was collection day.
The Heat Emperor's generals would arrive.
No head meant punishment.
And punishment from the Heat Emperor's faction was never symbolic.
It was final.
The surrounding mutants quickly understood the situation.
Pity flickered across a few faces.
Amusement appeared on others — faint smiles tugging at cracked lips as if this were simply another performance in the wasteland's endless theater of suffering.
Then, gradually, they began to leave.
Even with the constant crying.
Even with the father's shaking pleas.
There was nothing they could do.
They couldn't hand over their own heads out of kindness.
Each head represented survival.
Protection.
Time.
Anyone who clung to kindness had already been swallowed by this world.
The wasteland did not tolerate softness.
It consumed it.
The father watched the crowd thin.
Watched backs turn.
Watched hope dissolve.
Something inside him finally snapped.
His despair twisted violently into madness.
Before anyone could react, he lunged toward his daughter and grabbed her by the neck.
Gasps rippled briefly through those still watching.
The daughter's wail cut off mid-breath.
Her eyes widened.
Disbelief.
Then terror.
Her small hands instinctively clawed at his wrist.
"I'll trade her!" the father shouted, voice cracking, spit flying from his lips. "I'll trade my daughter for an abomination head!"
His fingers tightened.
The daughter's tail trembled weakly behind her.
The mutants looked.
Measured.
Calculated.
Then turned away.
Even if she was beautiful after a bath — fox-like, delicate —
She offered no survival advantage.
Pleasure?
Most of them were numb to it.
Animal-type mutants only gained slight enhancements in speed, reaction, senses.
Minor boosts.
Nothing that could stand against stronger mutants in the area.
No one wanted to risk their own head quota.
No one wanted to be a hero.
Not today.
Not in this place.
The daughter's breathing grew shallow.
Her tears fell silently now.
The betrayal hurt more than the choking.
Just as the crushing weight of despair threatened to swallow her whole—
An indifferent young voice cut through the air.
"I'll make the trade."
Silence descended instantly.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.