Vincent finally realized what was amiss. He had sensed it when these people first appeared, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. However, when things took a turn for the worse, it all clicked. The issue lay in their demeanor.

  These individuals were a motley crew: an ordinary-looking black youth, a neatly groomed man resembling a corporate elite, a middle-aged man with a protruding belly, an elderly gentleman, and a tattooed man. They weren't a unified group before the apocalypse. The end times had forced them together, but that was the extent of their unity. They were an unlikely assembly, brought together by necessity rather than choice. Their differing personalities and lack of familiarity made it improbable that they had conspired to harm others.

  This was something even Vincent couldn't orchestrate. If he were to rally his group to harm innocent people, to kidnap or even kill, Laura would undoubtedly object. Her dissent would likely sway Old Mike and Jason as well. Robbie, of course, would follow Vincent's lead, and Manuela would certainly support him. Christine, however, would likely waver.

  Thus, Vincent's initial impression of these people was that they were harmless. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, specifically, their emotions. There was an eerie undercurrent of suppression in their demeanor. In other words, they lacked the excitement one would expect upon encountering other survivors. Except for Brooke, the others exhibited varying degrees of this emotional flatness. If one person lacked excitement, it could be attributed to personality. But if an entire group was uniformly subdued, it hinted at a potential conspiracy. What were they suppressing? Vincent sensed it but hadn't fully grasped it, primarily because he hadn't considered the possibility of a threat.

  "Put down your guns!" Brooke repeated, noticing the group's silence. He pressed the gun harder against Vincent's head, forcing Vincent to jerk his head to the side.

  "No, uh!" Christine, who was being held hostage, cried out, only to be muffled by the man behind her. She could feel two lethal threats: a knife at her neck and a gun pressed against her lower back. The man holding her used her as a human shield, and his earlier "gentleness" during their initial interaction is now absent.

  Manuela and the other two who still held their guns exchanged glances, hesitating. The situation was at a standstill. Although Vincent's group was clearly at a disadvantage, any move could result in immediate harm to Christine and Vincent, who were almost certain to die. If a firefight broke out, the opposing side's numerical advantage would likely lead to the deaths of most of Vincent's group, with Robbie being the only one with a chance of survival. However, if they surrendered their weapons, they would be at the mercy of their captors, potentially facing a fate worse than death.

  Old Mike and Robbie had already stood up, their hands raised in front of them. Their guns were holstered at their lower backs, making any attempt to draw them highly conspicuous.

  There was still a glimmer of hope for Vincent's group: Robbie. His marksmanship was exceptional. At such close range, he could hit a target's vital spot without even aiming. Unfortunately, he didn't have a gun in his hand, and there were two hostages. If there were only one, Robbie could take out the captor with a single shot to the temple. But with two, it would be far more complicated. Even if Robbie could draw his gun quickly, the first shot would alert everyone, meaning he could only save one person.

  "What do you want?" Robbie asked, his eyes scanning the group.

  "I told you to put down your guns. Didn't you hear me?" Brooke's voice rose, his tone mocking.

  "Uh!" Christine struggled, her head tilting back against the man's chest, tears streaming from her eyes as she made muffled sounds. The group's attention immediately shifted to her. The man holding her had already made a small, shallow cut on her neck with his knife. Vincent caught a glimpse of it.

  This was a warning.

  "No!" Manuela cried out, her gaze darting to Vincent. The others also looked at Vincent. Robbie gave Vincent a subtle blink—not the natural rhythm of a normal blink, but a deliberate signal.

  When would such a signal be necessary?

  Of course, when action was imminent, to coordinate timing. If they were to surrender, the signal would be meaningless. Robbie was preparing to act! In that moment, Vincent's mind raced, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Ultimately, he gave Robbie a slight shake of his head.

  If Robbie acted, it would mean sacrificing at least one person. Vincent knew this. Would it be himself or Christine? Without a doubt, Robbie would choose to save Vincent over Christine. Not only had Vincent saved Robbie's life three times, but in terms of capability, Christine was no match for Vincent. If only one could be saved, Robbie would undoubtedly choose Vincent. Thus, his first shot would be aimed at Brooke, likely resulting in Christine's death.

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  Losing one person while still not fully escaping danger was a bad trade. However, this wasn't the only reason Vincent advised against action. First, the group's intent seemed to be to capture, not to murder. If they wanted to kill, they could have done so from the safety of the building, firing down at Vincent's unsuspecting group. With a couple of good marksmen, at least half of Vincent's group, if not all, could have been killed. After all, they had been on guard against zombies, not human attackers.

  The second reason was the zombies. Vincent had narrowly escaped a massive horde before the tire blew out. The horde was no more than half a kilometer away. If a firefight broke out, the gunfire would undoubtedly attract the horde. Vincent's group had pistols with silencers, but Brooke's group had an assortment of weapons: pistols, shotguns, and semi-automatic rifles. If the horde were drawn in, the consequences would be catastrophic.

  Vincent surmised that Brooke's group was likely unaware of the nearby horde. The buildings on this street weren't tall, and even from the top floor, the view would be obstructed by skyscrapers on other streets. But Vincent knew, and he had to consider this.

  These were the factors Vincent could think of at the moment. Weighing the pros and cons, surrendering seemed the better option. It was unlikely that Brooke's group would kill them indiscriminately.

  "Oh? They still listen to you even when you're held hostage. I wonder what they'll do if you die?" Brooke's voice, laced with mockery, sounded in Vincent's ear.

  He noticed that the others were looking to Vincent for a decision. This intrigued Brooke. In a post-apocalyptic world, there were no formal hierarchies. When faced with life-and-death situations, most people would prioritize their own survival.

  What Brooke didn't realize was Vincent's logical thinking and comprehensive consideration of situations, qualities that even Old Mike and Robbie admired. In moments of indecision, the group trusted Vincent to make the right call. They knew he wasn't one to make rash decisions.

  Robbie saw Vincent's slight shake of the head and his expression shifted slightly, then hardened. He, too, was weighing his options. With his skills, he could take out several of the enemy and escape. He wasn't bound by any loyalty; if he could escape, he might choose not to surrender. But soon, he slowly raised his hands and clasped them behind his head.

  He had chosen Vincent over his escape.

  "Everyone, put down your guns," Vincent said, his tone resigned. The world was a treacherous place, and one misstep could lead to irreversible consequences. Vincent hadn't expected his first major setback in the apocalypse to come at the hands of fellow humans. It was bitterly ironic.

  Robbie, with his hands behind his head, turned his back to Brooke's group.

  Manuela and the others exchanged glances once more, then slowly lowered their arms and dropped their guns. They followed Robbie's example, turning their backs and clasping their hands behind their heads.

  Brooke gave Vincent a curious look, then signaled to the others. "Tie them up!"

  Some of the men moved forward, first confiscating the group's weapons, then binding each person's hands behind their back with rope. The half-open shutter of a small shop was fully raised, and Vincent's group was shoved inside.

  The shop's windows were covered by shutters, and only when the main shutter was fully opened did sunlight flood in. The shop was modest, about fifty to sixty square meters, with a messy floor littered with food wrappers and scattered merchandise. Several shelves had been pushed to the sides, their contents mostly gone, likely collected by Brooke's group.

  Once inside, Vincent realized they weren't the first to be captured. In the far right corner of the shop, two people were bound hand and foot, sitting against the wall with their mouths taped shut.

  One was a biracial girl with dark skin and braided, flaxen hair. Her large eyes suggested she was around Christine's age. The other was an impressively built, semi-gray-haired white man in his late fifties or early sixties, older than Old Mike. His muscular frame, nearly 1.9 meters tall, was imposing, with tattooed arms as thick as Vincent's thighs.

  From their appearances, Vincent guessed they were related—likely father and daughter or grandfather and granddaughter.

  "How did Brooke capture him?" Vincent wondered, then immediately dismissed the question. Of course, it was with a gun. No amount of muscle could stop a bullet.

  Vincent's group was pushed against the wall, their mouths left untaped. There was no need; they wouldn't scream for help, as there were no police or rescuers to come. Doing so would only attract zombies, a death sentence.

  Brooke's men began inspecting the two vehicles. Two of them worked on the nearly repaired tire. The shutter remained open, allowing Vincent's group a partial view outside.

  Brooke stood inside the shop, scanning the bound group with a smile. Suddenly, he raised his gun, sweeping it past each person's forehead. Everyone instinctively flinched back, including Vincent. Being too calm might provoke Brooke, leading to a fatal outcome.

  Vincent didn't know Brooke well and had no intention of standing out. In a world without laws or morals, killing wasn't a difficult decision.

  "Haha!" Brooke suddenly lowered his gun and laughed. He had only meant to scare them, finding it amusing.

  As Brooke toyed with Vincent's group, the bound man and girl in the corner remained silent. The girl's head hung low, her expression hidden, while the muscular man had been staring at Brooke since he entered, his gaze sharp.

  After laughing, Brooke noticed the man's stare and approached him. He crouched down and ripped the tape from the man's mouth.

  "How does it feel? Comfortable?" Brooke asked, his tone mocking.

  The man stared at Brooke, his gaze unwavering. After a few seconds, he suddenly spat in Brooke's face, cursing, "Scum!"

  Surprisingly, Brooke wasn't angered. He stood up to avoid another spit and wiped his face with his sleeve, still smiling. "Dear uncle, don't be so angry. Angry people don't live long."

  This man was Brooke's uncle! Vincent and the others exchanged glances.

  "Damn you, you'll die a horrible death. Don't you dare call yourself a Flom after you're gone. We don't want the shame," the old man spat, his words venomous. It was unclear what Brooke had done to provoke such hatred.

  Brooke remained unperturbed, shrugging with a smirk. He then turned to Vincent's group. "Do you like your new friends? They'll keep you company until the zombies come to eat you all. Oh, my poor cousin..." Brooke looked at the biracial girl, his tone feigning pity. "So young, yet she'll die alongside her stubborn father."

  The relationships were clear now. The old man was Brooke's uncle, the girl his daughter—likely his youngest—and Brooke was the girl's cousin. For some reason, both had been tied up by Brooke.

  At that moment, a young black man ran into the shop. "Boss, the cars don't have keys. Neither of them!"

  The vehicles had been turned off upon stopping, as per Vincent's instructions, to avoid attracting zombies with the engine noise, especially from the truck, which was particularly loud.