The Rezvani rolled smooth over the cracked asphalt, its armored weight making the broken road feel like gravel under a tank. Riku’s eyes stayed sharp, sweeping the mirrors every few seconds. The city was quiet, too quiet, and quiet always ant trouble.
He cut around a corner, past a pharmacy with shattered glass like teeth and a bus frozen in the middle of the intersection. Then he saw it.
Three cars.
They weren’t just wrecks—these had been placed. Angled across the road, their fras overlapping, making a wall of steel and rust. One was a sedan stripped of its doors. Another a pickup with its hood open, engine gutted. And at the center, a car unlike the others—armored, spiked at the front, its grille sared with old blood.
A chill crawled down Riku’s spine. This wasn’t random. Soone set this up.
He slowed the Rezvani to a crawl, engine growling low. His hand hovered near the gear shift, ready to slam into reverse if he saw movent.
"Shit," he muttered. "Ambush."
The car at the center... it looked worse up close. And then he saw it.
A man.
Stripped to the waist, arms bound with thick rope, body tied to a crude cross bolted on the hood. His skin was bloodied, face swollen, head lolling. Alive? Dead? It didn’t matter—the ssage was clear. A warning. A trophy.
Riku tightened his grip on the wheel. Whoever set this up wasn’t just surviving. They were sending a ssage: this is our road.
He cursed under his breath. Turning back would waste precious ti. He’d have to find another route—and even then, if they controlled this block, they might control others.
Then the walkie-talkie on the dash crackled.
"—Onichan!"
Hana’s voice. His little sister.
He snatched it up instantly. "Hana? Talk to ."
Static buzzed, then her voice ca through again, higher this ti. "There are people. Outside! They’re trying to get in the supermarket!"
Riku’s heart slamd against his ribs. "What? How many?"
"I don’t know! Miko and Ichika saw them through the caras. They’re banging on the back shutter, shouting at Murata to open the door!"
Could it be that those vehicles up front are affiliated to the people trying to breach into the supermarket?
One of the vehicles rolled forward, heading towards his direction, and the other two vehicles followed.
Riku’s hands were hovering over the shifter. He knew that they were going to gang him up, but recalling the capabilities of the Rezvani Tank, he was confident they wouldn’t be able to harm him.
And he wanted to know if they are really affiliated with the people who are now at the supermarket. Letting them co to him would give him the answer.
The pickup rumbled closer, its engine coughing black smoke as it closed the distance. The sedan and the spiked armored car followed, their tires crunching glass and debris under the weight.
Riku’s grip on the wheel tightened. He didn’t move.
The vehicles finally screeched to a halt in a loose formation, hemming him in.
Doors slamd open.
One by one, n spilled out—six, then eight, then more. Their movents weren’t sloppy like regular scavengers. They carried themselves with an edge of discipline, shoulders squared, weapons up and ready.
And the weapons—Riku’s eyes narrowed.
These weren’t hunting rifles or rusty pipes. They had real firearms. The first man carried a Howa Type 89, the standard rifle of the Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Another had a shotgun—the sa Mossberg model issued to riot police. Two more had MP5s, slick and compact, unmistakable in silhouette. Behind them, a man stepped down from the armored car with an older AR-15 slung across his chest.
Riku cursed under his breath. This wasn’t so ragtag gang. These n had gear only law enforcent or military could’ve supplied.
Rogue cops? Ex-SDF?
The possibility made his stomach twist. If even a fraction of Japan’s security forces had gone rogue after the collapse, they’d have the training and the weapons to carve out territory—and enforce it with brutality.
One of the n banged a palm against the hood of the pickup, grinning with blood-sared teeth. "Oi! You in the car! Get the fuck out!"
Another raised his rifle, not aiming yet but letting the weight of it speak for him. "That’s a nice ride. Military issue? Doesn’t matter. It’s ours now."
The man with the AR stepped forward, clearly the leader. His uniform was stripped of patches, na tag ripped clean, but the fabric told the story—faded JGSDF fatigues, pants tucked into scuffed boots. He was bald and his face was weathered with sharp creases like old scars carved deep into his skin.
He wasn’t bulky in a cartoonish way, but built like stone, broad shoulders filling out the fra of his vest. Veins traced down his forearms as he carried the AR with the calm ease of a man who’d lived with a rifle longer than without one. His eyes were the worst part—cold, detached, scanning Riku and the Rezvani like he was already breaking down how to strip them both for parts.
Then he raised his AR-15 and fired a shot directly at the windshield.
Riku jolted in his seat. But the Rezvani didn’t even flinch. The windshield spiderwebbed faintly at the point of impact, the laminate layers catching the round. Bulletproof glass. The SUV drank the hit like it was nothing.
The leader tilted his head, and scoffed. "Bulletproof huh? Whoever you are, you better step outside, or else we are going to fire at your windows."
The Rezvani had more than armor—it had an intercom rigged for crowd control, a factory option ant for convoy operations. Riku reached down, flicked the switch, and the cabin’s silence bled into the outside world through the grill-mounted speaker.
"Can’t do that."
The n paused, a ripple of unease in their stances. The leader squinted, head cocking slightly.
Then, one of the n approached the leader and spoke.
"Sir, our raid team has already breached the supermarket."
Hearing that, Riku’s eyes widened. He didn’t have to ask them a question, they were connected!
Riku imdiately slamd the gas pedal and the Rezvani lurched forward.
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