"Where are the keys?" Brooke's eyes swept over Vincent and the others. "Are you going to tell us, or do we have to search you?" As he spoke, Brooke's gaze deliberately lingered on Manuela and Christine, making it clear that his intentions were far from innocent. Two of Brooke's men, standing elsewhere in the store, chuckled ominously at his words, including the short, stocky man in his fifties.

  "There are no keys. We stole the cars. You can check for yourself," Vincent quickly interjected.

  "Is that so?" Brooke turned to ask.

  "The steering column... near the ignition... It's been tampered with. Wires are exposed," a young man nodded, speaking haltingly but enough.

  Brooke frowned slightly. No keys meant trouble. Even if his men could hotwire the vehicles, if the cars stalled on the road, restarting them would be a hassle. He glanced back at Vincent's group, seemingly about to ask who had stolen the cars, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he turned to his men and said, "I'll go take a look. Keep an eye on them."

  "Call the others down from upstairs. Once the cars are running, we leave as soon as possible," Brooke ordered the black youth before hurrying out to the street with him.

  The store's door remained open, and Vincent's group could hear Brooke's commands. Soon, a man ran into the store, crossed the room, and headed up the stairs to the second floor. Only two of Brooke's men remained inside the store, while five others, including Brooke, were outside. One had gone upstairs.

  Vincent's eyes slowly scanned the small store, lingering on the two men guarding them. One was an older man with a thick beard and a stocky build. The other was around thirty, with neatly combed hair held in place by gel. He looked respectable, but his eyes betrayed him—they kept darting toward Manuela, who sat against the wall with her hands tied behind her back. Her shirt was slightly loose, revealing a hint of cleavage.

  The man's gaze kept returning to Manuela's exposed skin, though he occasionally glanced toward the door, as if torn between his desires and the fear of Brooke's disapproval. Now wasn't the time for distractions.

  Vincent's group sat in a line against the wall. Manuela was on the far end, followed by Robbie, Old Mike, Jason, Laura, Christine, and Vincent. At the very end, near the corner, were the muscular older man and his daughter, about three meters away from Vincent.

  Manuela's face was pale. She understood what the man's leering gaze meant and felt a wave of despair. Before the apocalypse, she had been a streetwalker, but being forced was entirely different from choosing. She glanced at Vincent, feeling no resentment toward him, even though he had been the one to order everyone to surrender. Given the choice between humiliation and fighting for survival, she would have chosen the latter. Yet, she had followed Vincent's lead.

  Old Mike and Laura wore expressions of deep concern, while Jason sighed, his usual optimism gone. Christine, sitting to Vincent's right, cried silently, her makeup smeared, looking utterly pitiful.

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  Outside, the truck sputtered to life but quickly died again. Brooke's hotwiring skills were lacking. He didn't ask any of Vincent's group for help, likely out of caution. Starting the car required sitting in the driver's seat and using both hands and feet. If someone were skilled enough, they could quickly start the engine and speed away. If Brooke had asked, Robbie, a decorated soldier with a Silver Star, would have done just that—and likely taken Brooke down in the process. But Brooke didn't give him the chance.

  "It's going to be okay. Don't cry... things will get better," Vincent suddenly whispered to Christine, who turned to look at him, biting her lower lip as tears streamed down her face.

  The two guards heard Vincent's words but didn't react.

  What they didn't notice was the faint *click* sound that accompanied Vincent's whisper. It was the sound of a snap button being undone. Vincent's leather jacket had metal snap buttons at the cuffs, which had been fastened until now. As he spoke, his left hand pressed against the cuff while his right hand undid the snap.

  From his sleeve, the sharp tip of a scalpel slid out, followed by its silver handle. Vincent had made it a habit to carry a scalpel in his sleeve ever since he killed Andrew. The blade, sharp enough to cut through human flesh with ease, was now in his hand. He held it carefully, using it to slowly saw through the rope binding his wrists. All the while, he maintained eye contact with Christine, as if comforting her, while his movements behind his back were deliberate and slow to avoid detection. Soon, the rope snapped.

  Their hands had been tied by looping the rope around their necks, then around their arms, and finally binding their wrists together. The knot was at the wrists, so cutting the rope there would free their hands. But Vincent didn't move, keeping his hands behind his back as he sat. He looked at Christine with a resigned expression and whispered, "If you need to cry, go ahead. You can lean on my shoulder." His tone carried a hint of despair.

  Christine looked at him, then suddenly buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly.

  "Hey, hey! What are you doing?" The thirty-something man who had been eyeing Manuela shouted, raising his gun as he approached Vincent and Christine.

  "She's just a kid. What do you want from her?" Vincent said, shrinking back slightly but holding his ground.

  "A kid?" The man crouched beside them, reaching out to touch Christine's hair. "Not for long," he chuckled, then tried to touch her face. He was now close enough for Vincent to overpower him and take his gun, but Vincent held back.

  Christine pressed her face deeper into Vincent's chest, avoiding the man's hand. The man, annoyed, reached further, determined to touch her.

  "Merry, leave her alone. Focus on the task. The boss won't be happy if you mess around. You'll have your fun later," the stocky older man by the door warned, gripping his shotgun.

  "Shut it, old man. I don't need your advice," Merry snapped, but stood up anyway. He glanced at Christine, then at Manuela, before walking away with a smirk, as if plotting something.

  It was clear that these men feared Brooke, referring to him as "the boss."

  As Merry walked away, Christine felt something cold and metallic tap against her bound hands.

  Her sobs paused for a moment.

  "It's a knife... sharp... be careful," Vincent whispered into her hair, his voice barely audible.

  Christine continued to cry, but more quietly now. Behind her back, Vincent tapped the scalpel's handle against her hand until she grasped it. Since she was still leaning against Vincent, their bodies close together, the exchange went unnoticed.

  Outside, the truck sputtered and died again, followed by Brooke's muffled curses.

  "Sit up," Vincent whispered.

  Christine, now holding the scalpel, adjusted her grip. She had seen Vincent's scalpel before and remembered how it worked.

  Her sobs gradually subsided, as if she were calming down. She shifted, sitting up straight.

  "Cough!" Vincent suddenly let out a loud cough, adjusting his posture as if Christine's weight had been uncomfortable. The cough drew the guards' attention, but from the front, nothing seemed amiss. However, the others in the group noticed.

  As Vincent coughed, Christine had just sat up, leaving a gap between her back and the wall. When the others turned to look, they caught a glimpse of the scalpel in her hand.

  Christine leaned back against the wall, and the others averted their eyes, pretending nothing had happened.