The store stayed quiet after that. The only sound was Hana's breathing and the soft clink of plastic from the bottles when someone shifted. The shutter rattled a few times when the wind ran down the street, then the night settled again, heavy and watchful.

Riku watched for a long time. He didn't count minutes, just breaths. When he was sure the street outside had gone still, he let his shoulders drop one notch. Not relaxed, never relaxed—just less tight.

"Try to rest," he murmured.

No one argued, but no one slept either. The girls sat near each other in a little knot behind the counter, trading heat through the thin blankets. They didn't speak. It was enough to hear each other breathe.

Eventually, the dark gray at the edges of the taped glass shifted toward pale. Dawn came slow and colorless, like a dirty sheet being pulled over the street. The city's noises thinned, and the cold changed. Riku felt it on his face before he saw it.

"We made it," he said quietly.

Hana stirred first. She blinked up at Miko's shoulder, then rubbed her eyes with a small fist and yawned. Her hair stuck out in every direction. She looked around, confused for a second, then remembered and sat up fast.

"Good morning," she whispered.

Miko stroked her hair. "Morning."

Ichika uncrossed her legs and stretched her arms until her back popped. "Ugh. My whole body is stiff."

"You slept sitting," Suzune said, half-smiling. "No wonder."

"Didn't want to lie down," Ichika muttered. "Felt wrong."

Riku stood, rolled his shoulders, and checked the shutter bolt. Still firm. He lifted a corner of towel near the glass and peered into the street. Empty. A cat flicked its tail on a car roof two doors down and sprinted away. No hunters on the rooftops. No zombies in the lanes. Morning had pushed them into holes.

"Okay," he said, voice a little louder. "We're alive, and that means we keep acting like we want to stay that way. Water first. Everyone drink. Then we eat something small."

He handed out bottles. The girls drank carefully, like he'd taught them—small sips, pause, breathe. Hana hummed at the first swallow and looked guilty, like enjoying it was a crime. Riku winked at her.

"Good water is allowed," he said.

They split the last crackers and one of the candy bars. Miko gave Hana the bigger piece without thinking. Hana tried to split it back. Miko refused. Riku pretended not to see the little tug-of-war and ate his share of crackers like they were a feast.

After food came the realistic part: chores.

"Teeth," he said.

"What," Ichika blinked, "with what?"

Riku raised a brow at the shelves. "You're in a convenience store."

"Oh," she said, a little embarrassed.

Hana brightened. "Toothbrushes!"

She trotted down an aisle and came back hugging a bundle of new brushes and a tiny mountain of travel toothpaste. She set them on the counter like treasure. Miko laughed, the sound thin but real.

They brushed their teeth behind the counter using the bottle caps as tiny cups. It felt dumb and normal at the same time. Hana made a face at the mint foam, then giggled when Ichika did the same. Suzune handed Riku a fresh brush without meeting his eyes. He accepted it and did the job quick, spitting into a plastic bag he tied off tight.

"Hands," Riku said next. He found a pack of wet wipes and passed them around. Everyone cleaned their face and neck, then their hands and wrists. Miko wiped Hana's ears because Hana forgot. Hana squeaked and swatted, then laughed again.

It wasn't much, but the store felt different after that—less like a cave, more like a room.

Riku did a gear check while they cleaned up. He counted magazines by touch. He racked the M4's charging handle halfway and checked the chamber, then eased it forward. He looked at the pistol, checked its weight, and put it back. He opened the broken back-room door once more, scanned the shelves, then crossed to the counter and crouched.

Under the till, in a taped drawer, he found a small steel box. He popped it with a flathead from a blister pack. Inside: coins, a phone charger, a mini lighter, a pack of gum, and two single-use heat packs. He pocketed the lighter and heat packs.

In the corner near the drink coolers, he found what he'd hoped for: a dusty single-burner butane stove still in its box, and three small blue fuel canisters. Someone had raided the food, but not the camping shelf. He cracked the box and tested the knob. It clicked. He let himself smile once, quick and small.

"Good news," he said. "We cook."

That word turned four faces at once.

"Now?" Hana whispered.

"If we're quiet," Riku said. "Rice only. No smell that carries. We'll set the stove in the back room with the door half-closed and a wet towel under it. We keep it low and slow. Rice doesn't need to shout to cook."

Suzune stood. "I'll measure."

They turned the back room into a kitchen. Miko found a dented aluminum pot on a shelf. Ichika rinsed it with a trickle of bottled water and wiped it dry with a new hand towel. Suzune measured rice into the pot with steady hands, then added water by eye. She tapped the edge of the pot and nodded.

"Looks right."

Riku set the burner on the floor, cracked a canister into place, and sparked the lighter. A soft blue flame bloomed. He set the pot and lowered the flame so it whispered. He slid a wet towel under the door gap and pulled the door mostly closed.

"Now we wait," he said.

They waited. The quiet was kind. Suzune leaned in the doorway and watched the low flame like it was therapy. Miko sat with Hana and taught her a simple hand game to keep her still. Ichika force-opened a plastic drawer and found four little hair ties with cartoon characters on them. She tossed one to each of the girls. Hana gasped like she'd been given a gem.

"You like it?" Ichika asked, trying to sound casual.

Hana nodded hard. "Thank you."

Ichika looked away fast, ears pink.

The pot clicked once and breathed steam. The room filled with a soft, warm smell—just rice, clean and quiet. It didn't stab the air like meat or spice would. It smelled like home. For a minute no one spoke.

When the rice was done, Riku killed the flame and let the pot sit. He didn't lift the lid. He waited until the steam finished its job. Then, with a cloth over his hand, he carried it to the counter and set it down like a shrine.

"We don't have bowls," Miko said.

"Cups," Suzune answered, already reaching. She pulled four paper coffee cups from a rack and a plastic ladle from a shelf. She fluffed the rice, steam rising in a soft cloud, then scooped each cup a half-full serving.

"Salt?" Hana asked hopefully.

"Found some," Ichika said, lifting a small shaker like she'd won a raffle. She sprinkled the tiniest dust over each cup. No one argued about portion. Everyone got a little.

They ate on the floor behind the counter, backs against the shelves. No one talked while they ate. They didn't need to. Warm rice settled them from the inside out. Hana closed her eyes on the second sip of the cup and hummed again. Miko smiled into her drink. Suzune's shoulders finally dropped. Ichika pretended it wasn't good and then ate fast.

Riku ate last, slow. Each bite pushed the night further away.

When the pot was empty and the cups were trash, Riku set the rules for the morning. "We rest in turns until the sun is fully up. One on the shutter, one by the back door, two sleeping, then rotate. No snoring."

Hana raised a hand. "What's snoring?"

"Nothing," Miko said quickly. "You don't do it."

Hana made a suspicious face and then giggled.

Suzune took the first shutter watch. Riku took the back door. Ichika and Miko lay down for the first rest. Hana tried to lie down too, but after two minutes she sat up and crawled over to Riku, dragging her blanket.

"Can I sit here?" she whispered.

Riku nodded. She tucked herself against his side and watched the door with him like a tiny soldier. Her head drooped five minutes later. He eased her down gently and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

He listened to the city while she slept. Morning brought far-off sounds: a fallen sign creaking on its last hinge, a plastic bag scraping along a curb, wings thumping when a bird spooked. Human noises were rare. A single cough drifted from blocks away and died.

When the sun finally climbed into a real day and painted the towels over the glass a brighter gray, Riku started the next part: quiet maintenance.

"Stay inside the store," he told the girls. "I'm going to check the Rezvani. Two minutes. If you hear three car horn taps, get to the back room, lock it, and count to sixty. Don't open for anything but the knock code."

"Three then two," Hana said from the blanket without opening her eyes.

"Good," Riku said.

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