Dinner at Hancock Fortress had seen its share of tension—arguments over salt, over rationing, even over who got the last can of peaches.  

But tonight’s silence was something new.  

It wasn’t quiet because of the new guest.  

It was quiet because every woman at the table had *seen* the same footage:  

Gene Hancock, standing in the basement, voice soft, saying,  

> “Call me Gene.”  

And later—“You must be tired. Come on, let’s go up for dinner.”

Harmless words. Too harmless.  

And yet, they detonated like landmines.  

Now the six of them sat at the long steel table.  

The stew in the pot was still bubbling, but no one cared.  

Gene sat at the head, pretending to focus on his plate. He could *feel* the air tighten, like invisible crosshairs aiming straight at him.  

Reina was first to break the silence, spoon tapping the rim of her bowl.  

“So,” she said coolly, “I didn’t know our Supplier could be *gentle*.”  

Kayla immediately followed, her smile sharp as glass. “Oh, he has his moments. I’m sure our new mechanic already noticed.”  

Liz chimed in, her tone sugar-coated venom. “Yeah, the way he said *‘Call me Gene’*? Ugh, I almost fell in love myself just watching.”  

Alyssa, ever the calm one, stirred her soup. “Hormonal reactions. Classic. Though I admit, the phrasing was surprisingly considerate for him.”  

Freya, meanwhile, was too busy piling food into Gene’s bowl. “You need to eat more!” she said with forced cheer. “You’ll need strength for… later.”  

That “later” hung in the air like an armed grenade.  

Gene swallowed hard. “...You all right there?”  

Kayla leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. “So, Gene—what’s the plan for tonight?  

Sleeping alone again?”  

“Yeah,” Liz added, grinning wickedly. “You sure you’re not *lonely* down there in that big room of yours?”  

Reina raised an eyebrow. “Or are you planning to change your sleeping arrangements?”  

The air filled with laughter, overlapping voices, teasing that carried a little too much bite.  

Gene sighed. “You know, I’ve slept alone every single night since this fortress was built. Not exactly a shocking confession.”  

That only made it worse.  

Kayla smirked. “Oh? So if you had to choose someone to *not* sleep alone with, who’d it be?”  

Liz gasped theatrically. “Careful, Kayla, he might say you—then you’ll have to follow through.”  

Freya blinked, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Why don’t we all just sleep together tonight? Then he doesn’t have to choose!”  

Silence.  

Absolute, drop-a-pin silence.  

Five pairs of eyes turned toward her at once.  

Freya tilted her head innocently. “What? It’s warmer that way.”  

Gene coughed violently, almost choking on his drink. “Right—okay—time check! Late! Really late!” He stood so fast his chair screeched.  

“You ladies finish dinner. Rest early. I, uh, have… system maintenance to do.”  

He didn’t wait for permission.  

Within seconds he was out the door, down the corridor, and safely behind the reinforced lock of his room.  

He threw every latch, every deadbolt.  

Then leaned against the wall, exhaling. “This is worse than a gunfight,” he muttered.  

> **System:** “Observation: host displays extreme avoidance behavior.  

>  Emotional environment—volatile but stable.  

>  Recommendation: continue solo sleeping arrangement.”  

“Gee, thanks,” Gene said dryly. “Glad to know I have your emotional analytics team on standby.”  

Back at the table, Nara Vivienne quietly finished her meal.  

She hadn’t said a word through the chaos. The women had laughed and teased, but not once had anyone spoken harshly to her.  

Still, she knew she was the cause of the storm.  

She washed her dish, murmured a polite “good night,” and left for the north annex.  

The halls were quiet again—until a faint buzz crackled through the wireless receiver beside the control console.  

Reina, passing by, frowned and tapped the unit.  

“Transmission inbound. Government channel.”  

A familiar coded ping followed, one only Gene’s fortress recognized.  

Reina patched it through to his quarters.  

Gene, still barricaded behind three locks, answered the call.  

A male voice came through, filtered with static but formal.  

> “Supplier Hancock, this is Central Command, Sector 4.  

>  We’re requesting another trade—one container of preserved food. Urgent dispatch.  

>  Objective: supply expansion units en route to outlying civilian zones. Estimated manpower: 250 personnel.”  

Gene rubbed his eyes.  

The government. Again.  

They’d contacted him a year ago—what was left of the “government,” anyway.  

A fractured command trying to restore order, still clinging to old protocols and hope.  

Since then, he’d supplied them regularly. Food, medicine, fuel—whatever they needed to keep the illusion of structure alive.  

Now they wanted an entire shipping container of canned food.  

He leaned back in his chair, thinking aloud. “A container, huh…? What do I even ask for this time?”  

> **System:** “Proposal: trade for titanium alloy.”  

Gene blinked. “Titanium? What for? You can’t just *make* things out of thin air?”  

> **System:** “Correction: I can. But the satisfaction of human negotiation maintains illusion of autonomy.  

>  Also, titanium is a strategic resource with high adaptive value.”  

“So you *can* make it,” Gene said slowly, “but you’d rather make me ask for it.”  

> **System:** “Affirmative. Consider it social enrichment.”  

He groaned. “Fine. Titanium it is.”  

He grabbed his communicator and called the radio room.  

“Liz,” he said, “send this reply: One full container of canned food. In exchange—one full container of titanium metal.  

Delivery through standard route.”  

Liz’s laughter carried through the line. “Titanium? You building a mech now?”  

“Just send the message,” he said.  

A few hours later, a reply crackled back through the fortress frequency.  

The government liaison’s voice was incredulous.  

> “Titanium…? That’s a steep ask. Before the fall, that would’ve been insane.  

>  But—hell, times have changed. We can scavenge and ship what we’ve got. The food’s worth it.”  

They accepted. No hesitation.  

These days, even desperation had manners.  

Gene leaned back, watching the transaction record flicker across the monitor.  

The fortress whirred as the system confirmed the trade.  

> **System:** “Transaction successful. Resource influx scheduled.  

>  Estimated delivery: seventy-two hours.  

>  Host remains insufferably efficient.”  

Gene smirked. “That’s called surviving.”  

> **System:** “Correction: that’s called hoarding.”  

He didn’t answer.  

Outside his window, the lights of Hancock Fortress blinked against the dark wasteland—steady, unshaken.  

Inside, the man who supplied what was left of the world finally stretched, sat on his bed, and sighed.  

“Another day,” he murmured. “Another deal. Another disaster averted.”  

And, perhaps mercifully, another night sleeping alone.