For once, things were moving in two worlds at once.

At the Restoration Command base, the air smelled of oil, sweat, and paperwork.  

Major Angel Gates stood in front of the holographic map, her voice steady despite the fatigue in her eyes.

“Western sector—lost. Unknown hostiles, organized, heavily armed.  

We’re holding the river line, but morale is collapsing.”

Around her, officers exchanged uneasy glances.  

Someone finally asked, “And the Supplier, Major? Is he real?”

Angel’s gaze didn’t waver.  

“He’s real. And efficient. Our survival last week was partly thanks to him.”

Another officer leaned forward. “And his terms?”

Angel took a breath. “Titanium and aerospace-grade alloys.  

In exchange, one container of ammunition and one of preserved food.”

Murmurs filled the room—shock, disbelief, envy.  

One colonel whispered, “He’s asking for luxury scrap in exchange for life.”

Angel’s reply was calm but cutting.  

“In this world, metal can’t fill a stomach or a gun.  

Food and bullets are currency now—and he prints both.”

That silenced the room.

She looked at the logistics officer. “Start gathering the materials. Three containers worth.  

I want that deal confirmed in forty-eight hours.”

“Yes, Major.”

As the room cleared, Angel lingered, staring at the flickering map.  

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to smile.  

*He may be infuriating,* she thought, *but he keeps his word.*

Back at Hancock Fortress, the world was quieter—and warmer.

In the underground garage, Nara Vivienne wiped grease from her hands, stepping back from the machine she’d been working on for weeks.  

The black chassis gleamed under the lights, silver lines curling along the hood like scars polished into beauty.

The “Rattlesnake,” as Gene called it, was alive again.

She exhaled. “All right, old girl. You’ve got your roar back.”

The elevator doors slid open.  

Gene stepped in, still smelling faintly of coffee and ozone.

He froze at the sight.  

The car’s new coat shimmered—black with silver edges, its curves restored to perfection.

“…You actually did it,” he said quietly.

Nara grinned, leaning on her wrench. “Told you she just needed love—and forty-seven replacement parts.”

Gene ran his hand along the hood, reverent.  

“She’s perfect.”

Nara crossed her arms. “So? You gonna take her out for a drive?”

He chuckled. “Someday.  

Out there, it’s still too dangerous. No armor, no shield.  

She’d get shot before she hit second gear.”

He looked at the car one more time and smiled softly.  

“Let her sleep a bit longer.  

One day, she’ll run again—on a road that deserves her.”

> **System:** “Poetic statement detected.  

>  Host nostalgia level rising.”

“Shut up, I’m having a moment,” Gene muttered.

Meanwhile, at the north annex, life had found rhythm.

Puka McKerson and his grandchildren worked in the new basement garden,  

rows of sprouts swaying under synthetic sunlight.  

Beside them, Mikasa Gates crouched, cheerful and focused, her blonde hair tied back in a simple knot.

“Like this?” she asked, gently pressing soil around a seedling.

Puka smiled. “Exactly. Plants don’t need orders—they need care.”

Jesse giggled. “Grandpa says that about people too!”

Mikasa laughed, bright and unguarded.  

She had a way of filling the room with light, the opposite of her stoic sister.  

Everyone liked her instantly.

Even Kayla admitted, “She’s too nice. It’s suspicious.”

Alyssa had replied, “Some people are just… immune to apocalypse.”

> **System (silent internal memo):** “Mikasa Gates: rating confirmed—91.  

>  Subtype: ‘Chaotic Sunshine.’ Potential morale amplifier.”

That evening, as Gene reviewed reports, the radio lit up.

Liz’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Incoming transmission. It’s her.”

Angel’s voice followed, crisp as ever.  

> “Supplier, this is Major Gates. Reporting logistics update.  

>  Three containers of material will arrive by 1000 hours, day after tomorrow.”

Gene nodded. “Acknowledged.”

> “Per your terms—one container of ammunition, one of food. Confirm?”

He looked at the monitor, then glanced up as the System spoke.

> **System:** “Optimal exchange ratio confirmed.  

>  Trade value balanced: titanium and aerospace alloys exchanged for critical supplies.”

Gene spoke into the mic.  

“Confirmed. You deliver the metal, you get your supplies.”

> “Understood. Command thanks you for your cooperation.”

The line went silent.

Gene leaned back, exhaling.  

Three containers—more than he expected.  

And yet, even now, he felt the weight of it all pressing on him.  

A trade with the government meant visibility.  

And visibility was the one thing he hated most.

> **System:** “Reminder: secrecy level remains intact.  

>  North Annex personnel still uninformed.  

>  Recommend continued discretion.”

“Good,” Gene murmured.  

“Let’s keep it that way.”

Upstairs, the smell of soup drifted through the hall again.  

Laughter from the annex echoed faintly in the distance.  

And in the quiet of the garage,  

the black Rattlesnake gleamed under the pale light—  

a memory of speed, waiting for a world that could move again.