Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son
Chapter 104:

Chapter 104: 104:

"Winter!"

He turned sharply, already irritated, and found himself staring at Blake sauntering over. The young man’s signature smirk was firmly in place, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture relaxed and cocky as ever.

Richard let out an audible sigh. "Blake, not now."

Blake ignored him completely, his dark eyes fixed on Winter with unmistakable amusement. "Man, you’ve been here, what? Three days? And you’re already getting scolded by the higher-ups? Gotta say, that’s impressive. Most people wait at least a week before they piss off command."

Winter barely spared him a glance. "Not interested," he said, voice clipped, before turning to leave.

Blake tsked, shaking his head. "C’mon now, you’re not running away, are you? Or do you only play tough when it’s some pencil pusher pissing you off?"

Winter’s fingers twitched at his sides. His control was slipping, loosening thread by thread. He needed to walk away—just walk away.

Then Blake took a step closer, voice laced with mocking challenge.

"Why don’t we settle this with a spar? Unless, of course, you’re afraid of losing in front of everyone."

Winter stilled.

The hallway had gone quiet. People were already watching.

Blake wanted a show.

Fine.

Winter slowly turned back to him, finally meeting his gaze. Blake was younger, fast, and skilled. Winter had seen him in action during that period outside the wall—he had a right to his confidence.

But he was also cocky, predictable, and arrogant enough to believe he stood a chance.

Winter’s frustration burned in his chest. His entire body was tense with pent-up anger, and Blake was practically begging to be knocked down a few pegs.

The cocky little bastard wanted a show.

Winter exhaled again. He could walk away.

Or.

His fingers flexed. His jaw tightened.

Or he could give him one.

Blake must’ve seen something shift in his expression, because his grin widened. "So? You in or what?"

Winter tilted his head slightly. His eyes, cold as steel, locked onto Blake’s.

So he did the kindest thing he could.

He nodded.

"Alright."

Blake’s smirk widened in triumph.

Richard, however, groaned. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

The crowd that had gathered in the hallway followed them to one of the training rooms.

The sparring room was bare, utilitarian. Padded walls, a single mat in the center, benches lining the edges. The overhead lights buzzed faintly.

Blake stepped onto the mat first, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his limbs. He was hyping himself up.

The sparring mat stretched across the center of the space, and people quickly took their places around it, murmuring in excitement.

Blake stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders like he was already celebrating his inevitable victory.

"Hope you don’t take it personally when I wipe the floor with you," he said, giving Winter a cocky grin.

Winter said nothing.

He stepped onto the mat.

He lunged in fast, throwing a sharp jab toward Winter’s ribs. Winter stepped back—just a fraction—letting the punch barely graze his shirt. Blake followed up with a second, faster strike toward his jaw. Winter swayed aside. No block. No counter. Just a casual shift of weight. Blake frowned but kept going, twisting into a roundhouse kick aimed at Winter’s side. Winter ducked. The kick sailed past his head, and before Blake could reset his stance, Winter tapped the back of his knee with his foot—just enough to make him stumble slightly. Laughter rippled through the audience. Blake scowled. Winter tilted his head, voice like ice. "That it?" Blake gritted his teeth. Fine. He’d just have to go harder. He rushed in again, this time feinting a punch before twisting low, aiming to sweep Winter’s legs— Winter jumped. The sweep hit nothing. And before Blake could get back up, Winter’s boot drove into his chest, sending him crashing onto his back. A chorus of ooohhhs erupted from the onlookers. Blake coughed, eyes wide. Winter didn’t let him breathe. He stepped in fast, grabbed Blake by the collar, and yanked him up—only to slam an elbow into his gut. Blake gasped, knees buckling. Winter let him drop. More laughter. Blake’s vision swam. His lungs burned. No. No, no, no—he was supposed to be winning this. The moment his hand hit the mat, he pushed himself up, ignoring the way his body screamed. His vision sharpened onto Winter, onto that infuriatingly calm expression, like none of this was even remotely challenging. Blake snarled. He threw himself at Winter again. Sloppy. Desperate. Winter sidestepped. Blake stumbled. Winter caught him by the throat—a brief squeeze, enough to make Blake’s vision blur—before he slammed him into the ground. Hard. Blake saw stars. The room was spinning. Somewhere in the distance, the crowd was cheering. Winter exhaled slowly, finally stepping back. His hands flexed, tension still buzzing under his skin, but the weight of frustration had eased. Just slightly. Blake groaned, barely conscious. Richard shook his head. "Yeah, that’s enough." Winter didn’t argue. Richard crouched, checked Blake’s pulse, then let out a whistle. "Damn. You really wanted to make a point, huh?"

The doors slammed open and an official website walked in.

"What is going on here?!"

The men dispersed quickly.

"You! Confinement! Now."

Winter sighed, allowing the men drag him to the confinement room. He needed the break.

The cell was small. Bare. Just a cot, a toilet, and four thick, reinforced walls. Winter had been here for hours, maybe more. He hadn’t kept track.

Not like it mattered.

Solitary was supposed to be a punishment.

To Winter, it was a reprieve.

He sat on the cot, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. Thinking. Trying to sort through the mess of his mind. Zara. The visions. The fight. The things he still couldn’t quite make sense of—

The door unlocked with a loud metallic click.

Winter’s head lifted slightly, but he didn’t move as the heavy door swung open. A man stepped inside, tall and poised, dressed in the clean-cut uniform of an official.

Winter’s gaze flicked up briefly—and then he saw them.

The eyes.

A shade of green too sharp, too vivid. Almost unnatural in their intensity, like twin blades cutting through the dim light of the cell. They stood out immediately, striking enough to make something twist in Winter’s gut.

Not that he let it show.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze sliding away from the man’s face as he leaned back against the wall, arms loosely crossed. "Didn’t know I was allowed to have visitors."

The official smiled—polite, unreadable. "I’m not just any visitor."

He stepped forward, gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back, his posture rigid. "I’ve been watching you, Steele."

Winter’s eyes narrowed just slightly. "That so?"

"I saw your fight." The man tilted his head, amusement flickering behind those unsettling eyes. "You’re quite skilled. Not just there, but on the field as well. Efficient. Precise. Deadly, when you need to be."

Winter didn’t respond. Compliments meant nothing. Not from someone like this.

The man studied him for a moment before continuing. "I believe you’d be a very good ally to have."

Winter’s brows knitted. "...Ally?"

That was the second thing that threw him. What the hell did this guy mean? Wasn’t everyone in the base already on the same side? Wasn’t this military here to protect the people under the so-called "government" that ran this place?

"You seem confused," the official noted, smile never faltering. "But that’s understandable. The structure of power here is... layered. And within those layers, there are opportunities."

Winter said nothing.

"Men like you, strong men, don’t have to scrape by on rations and scraps." The official’s voice was smooth, practiced. "You want something? You take it. And if you know the right people, you get even more."

He stepped closer, just enough that Winter could catch the faint scent of something expensive—leather, polished wood, a trace of something herbal underneath.

"You want to eat better?" the man murmured. "You want supplies? Weapons? Comfort? You bring some of whatever comes into the base to me, and I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of."

Winter’s stomach coiled with something cold and wary. So that’s what this was. Of course there would be people like these in this place.

His jaw flexed slightly. "Not interested."

The official chuckled softly. "A shame. But perhaps you’ll reconsider when you realize how many others already take the offer."

He turned slightly, as if about to leave—then glanced at Winter over his shoulder.

"Oh. And before I go, I should mention..."

He paused, his smile sharpening.

"I know about your rifle."

Winter went still.

For the first time in the conversation, his heart gave a single, heavy thud against his ribs.

No one knew about that. No one was supposed to know.

He hadn’t told a damn soul.

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palm.

His expression didn’t change, but the shift in his posture was microscopic—a slight tensing in his shoulders, a flicker of heat under his skin.

The official noticed.

And that made his grin widen, just a fraction.

"I’ll be in touch."

With that, he turned and walked out, the door sealing shut behind him.

Winter sat there, staring at the empty space where the man had stood.

The unease crawling up his spine didn’t fade.