Inside, the halls were dim, lit only by emergency power strips running along the baseboards. The air smelled of stale instant ramen, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite washed out.

Survivors moved past each other in quiet, practiced routines. A woman carrying a crate of canned vegetables. Two teenagers arguing over a ration count. A man with a bandaged arm leaning against the wall, staring at nothing.

Near the entrance, a group was gearing up. Backpacks, harnesses, weapons. The kind of preparation that meant they were leaving soon—and might not come back.

A board hung beside the door, covered in handwritten names. Some were crossed out. Others had fresh ink, recent additions. A young woman stood in front of it, her fingers brushing over a name near the bottom.