Chapter 22

The abandoned Blockbuster Video store had been transformed into something between a fortress and a hideout. Bruce took in the details as Mark’s crew pushed him through the reinforced door—windows completely boarded up with salvaged plywood, creating a claustrophobic darkness broken only by battery-powered lanterns scattered throughout the space.

Where movie displays once stood, Bruce now saw the infrastructure of survival: crates of canned food stacked against walls, cardboard boxes filled with stolen goods, and an impressive collection of firearms that would make most gang leaders envious. Sleeping bags were arranged in neat rows along what used to be the comedy section, each one a child’s entire living space.

It was efficient. Organized. And utterly depressing.

Mark settled into what had once been the manager’s chair behind the old checkout counter, pulling Selina onto his lap with casual possessiveness. Bruce watched her face carefully as Mark’s fingers moved through her dark hair in slow, deliberate strokes. Her jaw was clenched tight, eyes focused on some distant point, enduring rather than enjoying the contact.

The other children arranged themselves around the store with practiced precision—close enough to hear Mark’s words, far enough to avoid his reach unless called upon. They watched their leader with the careful attention of prey animals studying a predator.

“Okay, Mr. Rich Man,” Mark said, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of someone accustomed to getting his way. “This is the deal. You’re going to give me more money—because I know you have it—and everything can stay nice and friendly.”

His fingers continued their movement through Selina’s hair, and Bruce caught the slight tremor that ran through her shoulders.

“And when you don’t give me the money I want, or I think you’re lying to me...” Mark’s hand suddenly moved from Selina’s hair to her throat, fingers wrapping around her neck with practiced ease. “You know what I’ll do.”