Chapter Text
The cold reached Tiso before the light did. It pressed through the walls of the compound, through metal and concrete and insulation scavenged from a dozen dead places, settling deep into bone and joint. He woke with his jaw clenched and his shoulders already tight, breath fogging faintly in the dim of his office as he lay still and listened.
No alarms. No shouting. No gunfire.
Good.
He counted the seconds between the low thrum of the generator cycling outside and the distant creak of the structure shifting as the temperature changed. Routine was survival. Routine meant nothing had gone wrong while he slept.
When he finally sat up, the ache in his body greeted him like an old colleague, familiar, manageable, expected. He rolled his shoulders once, then again, feeling the solid pull of muscle under his skin. Strong. Still strong. That mattered.
Tiso swung his legs over the edge of the cot and planted his feet on the cold floor, pausing there for a moment longer than necessary. The room smelled faintly of oil and antiseptic, metal and old paper. His office doubled as his sleeping quarters, not out of necessity, there were better-heated rooms elsewhere, but because proximity meant control. He liked to be close to his work. To the numbers. To the ledgers and maps and ration logs that proved, in ink and graphite, that the cartel was still functioning.
That he was still functioning.
He rose, pulling on his jacket and fastening it with practiced efficiency. The fabric pulled tight across his shoulders in a way that pleased him, a subtle resistance that hadn’t been there years ago. He caught his reflection in the narrow mirror bolted to the wall, scarred metal backing, cracked at one corner from a past incident he didn’t bother remembering.
Square jaw. Broad shoulders. A body built like it belonged here, in the cold, in command.
Good.
Tiso did not linger on the reflection. He never did. Looking too long invited questions, and questions were a liability.
He moved through the morning checklist automatically. Generator output stable. It didn’t do much than keep a few lights on, but for how dark the dam was without it, Kratt agreed with Tiso that excess fuel would go to it. Speaking of, fuel reserves were accounted for. No overnight losses from the perimeter traps. One note left on his desk in Grindle’s handwriting, short, efficient, informing him of a delayed supply run due to weather moving in from the east.
Tiso folded the note once and tucked it into his coat pocket without comment. He trusted Grindle. That trust had been earned, slowly, through competence and quiet loyalty, not sentiment.
Outside his office, the compound was already awake. Boots on concrete. Voices low and purposeful. The cartel did not waste energy on unnecessary noise anymore. Not in a world where every calorie burned had to be justified.
Tiso walked the main corridor, nodding to those he passed. Some returned it with respect. Others with wariness. A few with open relief, seeing him meant stability, meant someone else was still holding the weight of decisions they didn’t want.
He accepted all of it without comment.
In the main common area, Kratt was already seated at the table, dismantling a weapon with methodical precision. He glanced up as Tiso entered, mouth quirking into something that might have been a smirk.
“Morning, boss,” Kratt drawled. “World end yet?”
“Not yet,” Tiso replied evenly. “Try not to rush it.”
Kratt snorted and went back to his work. That was as close as they came to warmth this early in the day.
Tiso poured himself a cup of bitter, recycled coffee and drank it standing, eyes scanning the map pinned to the wall. Routes marked and crossed out. Weather notes scribbled in the margins. The world outside their walls was still hostile, still vast, still uncaring.
He liked it that way. Chaos made weakness obvious.
By the time the first briefing rolled around, Tiso’s body had settled into itself, the earlier stiffness fading into something more solid. He issued orders, adjusted schedules, reassigned manpower where it was needed most. His voice carried easily, steady and controlled, never raised.
No one argued.
When it was over, when the others dispersed back into the grind of survival, Tiso returned to his office and shut the door behind him. Only then did he allow himself to exhale fully.
He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle. He flexed his hands once, testing the strength there, the reliability of it.
Still holding. Still enough.
From the locked cabinet beneath his desk, he retrieved a small metal case and set it carefully on the table. The click of the latch echoed softly in the quiet room. Inside, nestled in padded compartments, were vials marked in precise handwriting and a syringe cleaned and reused more times than he cared to count.
Lifeblood.
Tiso handled it with the same care he gave everything else that mattered. He checked the vial against the logbook, confirming the date, the dosage, the expected effects. No surprises. No deviations.
This wasn’t indulgence. It wasn’t desperation.
It was maintenance.
He prepared the injection without rush, movements smooth and practiced. The needle slid in cleanly, barely a sting. He watched his own hand as he depressed the plunger, noting the steadiness there, the lack of tremor.
Warmth spread slowly, blooming beneath his skin, chasing away the last of the cold that had settled in him overnight. He closed his eyes for just a moment, breathing through it as his body accepted the familiar change.
Strength. Weight. Presence.
When he opened his eyes again, his reflection in the cracked mirror looked the same as it always did, composed, capable, unmistakably in control.
Good.
Tiso cleaned the syringe, logged the dosage, and locked the cabinet once more. The world outside his office would keep moving, with or without him. Storms would come. Supplies would dwindle. People would fail.
But here, now, everything was in order.
This was where he was.
And for the moment, it was enough.
The warmth didn’t fade quickly. It never did.
Tiso welcomed that. Let it settle into him as he pulled his jacket back on and fastened it with the same precise care as before. The lifeblood worked best when he didn’t rush afterward, Zylotol had explained that once, clinical and exact, like he was discussing engine maintenance instead of a body. Tiso had listened. He always listened when it came to things that kept him functional.
Outside, the wind picked up.
He heard it through the walls first, a low, distant moan threading itself through the compound’s bones. The long dark had a way of announcing itself early, like a warning given out of obligation rather than kindness. Weather out here wasn’t a background detail; it was an active force, something that made decisions for you if you didn’t make them fast enough yourself.
Tiso crossed to the window and peered out through the frost-scratched glass. Snow moved sideways across the yard, thin and sharp, not yet a storm but building toward one. A few figures hurried between structures, heads down, coats pulled tight.
Good. They were paying attention.
He turned back to his desk and began working through the next set of reports. Food consumption rates. Ammunition counts. Medical supplies, flagged, as always, for careful rationing. Lifeblood had its own column, separate from everything else, written in his hand. Controlled. Accounted for. Necessary.
The numbers calmed him.
There was comfort in knowing exactly how much they had left, exactly how long things would last if nothing changed. Comfort in knowing where the weak points were before they failed. He’d learned that long before the world went dark, on racetracks and in garages, where one overlooked detail could mean catastrophic loss.
Speed had taught him discipline. The collapse had taught him restraint.
A soft knock came at the door.
Tiso didn’t look up. “Come in.”
The door opened just enough for Grindle to slip inside, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. He shut it quietly behind him, like he always did, and leaned back against it for a moment, eyes flicking instinctively around the room before settling on Tiso.
“Storm’s going to hit hard by afternoon,” Grindle said. “Zango’s already grumbling about temperature fluctuations messing with his equipment, but Zylotol seems to be handling it.”
“Zango grumbles about everything,” Tiso replied, pen still moving. “Tell him to insulate better.”
Grindle smiled faintly at that, then pushed off the door and approached the desk. He didn’t crowd. He never did. Instead, he perched on the corner, close enough to talk without raising his voice.
“Supply run’s delayed until tomorrow at the earliest,” he continued. “Trail visibility’s already dropping.”
“Expected,” Tiso said. “We’ll adjust.”
Grindle watched him for a beat longer than necessary. Tiso felt it, the weight of the look, even without lifting his eyes.
“You’re up early,” Grindle said casually.
“I’m always up early.”
“Earlier than usual,” Grindle corrected.
That earned him a glance. Just one. Sharp, assessing.
Tiso met Grindle’s gaze evenly. “Someone has to make sure everything’s running.”
Grindle hummed, noncommittal. “Right. Just thought I’d check.”
There it was. Not an accusation. Not concern voiced outright. Just a check-in, light enough that Tiso could ignore it if he chose.
He chose not to acknowledge it.
“Anything else?” Tiso asked.
Grindle shook his head. “Nope. Just wanted to keep you in the loop.” He slid off the desk and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything.”
“I know,” Tiso said.
Grindle hesitated, like he wanted to say more, then thought better of it. He left, closing the door gently behind him.
The room felt quieter after that.
Tiso returned his attention to the reports, but the numbers blurred for a moment before settling again. He exhaled slowly through his nose and adjusted his grip on the pen.
Grindle worried too much. That was all.
He stood, stretching once, feeling the satisfying resistance of muscle as he rolled his shoulders. The lifeblood had done its job. His body felt aligned, responsive, ready. Whatever the storm brought, he would meet it head-on.
He gathered his coat and stepped back into the corridor, already shifting his focus outward. There was always something that needed doing. Someone who needed direction. A problem that needed solving.
The cold howled louder outside, pressing against the walls like a challenge.
Tiso straightened and walked toward it without hesitation.
He had survived worse.
And he would continue to do so, one controlled day at a time.