Peter stood motionless, arm tense, finger shaking on the trigger as he pointed his pistol at Dean's head. Dean didn't flinch. The sun poured through the tall windows, casting long beams onto the wooden floor where shadows danced with tension.
Captain Malcom leaned back in his chair, wiping the remnants of breakfast from his mouth with a smug grin. "To answer your question," he began lazily, "no, there's no government anymore. It's all gone to hell. The army? Barely hanging on by a thread."
John let out a dry laugh as he took another bite, while Peter's grip on the gun faltered slightly, the guilt in his eyes creeping past his glasses.
Malcom stood up slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "So here's what's going to happen, Dean. My men and I, we're moving into this fortress. It's a good spot, safe, and full of resources. But don't worry—we won't kick you out." He chuckled darkly. "We still need people to work the farm, after all."
Malcom and John exchanged a cruel laugh, their voices full of arrogance and false victory. Peter, however, shifted uneasily, clearly disturbed by the declaration.
Dean smirked and calmly asked, "The three of you… I can tell only one is a real military officer."
Malcom's expression froze.
John paused mid-bite.
Peter's eyes widened.
Dean slowly turned his head to Peter, still calm despite the gun aimed at him. "Peter, was it? What happened to you guys? How did the army get taken over by scum like these?"
Malcom's voice grew tense as he drew his pistol. "What the fuck?! How did you know?"
John immediately stood, sliding an army knife from his pocket and pressing it close to Dean's neck. "You're clever, huh? Maybe too clever." He grinned and even patted Dean mockingly on the head.
Dean's eyes darkened. A chilling silence filled the room. The weight of his stare alone made John recoil, instinctively taking a step back, his hands trembling.
"What… what the hell's wrong with you?" Malcom barked.
"He's not normal… we need to kill him now!" John shouted.
But it was too late.
In the moment of distraction, Dean had moved. With a smooth, practiced motion, he struck Peter's arm, sending the pistol flying to the side. Bang! A single shot rang out. Malcom cried out and dropped his gun, disarmed in the chaos. Dean swiftly picked up the weapon and leveled it at John.
"No, no. Put the knife down," Dean said coldly.
John dropped it without hesitation.
Dean radioed in. "Robert, bring the others. Now."
Within moments, the elevator clanged as it ascended. Robert and the armed teens stepped out, weapons ready. What they found was surprising—Malcom, John, and Peter on their knees, hands raised, faces pale.
"Dean! What the hell is going on?" Robert asked, bewildered.
"That's what I'm waiting to find out," Dean replied, eyes never leaving Peter. "Now Peter… tell us what happened."
Peter, drenched in sweat, seemed ready to collapse. But he took a breath, chest rising and falling like a man trying to fight off a breakdown.
"It started on that day…"