Reborn With Infinite Supplies System in Apocalypse

Chapter 8 - Nothing Is Free

Rhea arrived exactly the way I expected.

Alone. Upright. Eyes sharp enough to cut. Hunger is hidden behind posture.

She stopped a few steps away from me, just outside the shadow of the broken awning where I stood. The street between us was empty, littered with debris and the faint smell of blood that never quite went away anymore.

“Kyle,” she said. No greeting. No hesitation.

I studied her without answering.

In my first life, I would have looked away under a stare like that. Now I let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Until she noticed.

She did.

“You have food,” she said. Not a question.

I smiled faintly. “That’s the rumour.”

Her jaw tightened. “People are starving inside.”

“So am I,” I replied calmly.

That threw her off balance for half a second. Just enough.

She exhaled through her nose. “If you’re trading, say it plainly.”

“Trading?” I echoed. “That implies equality.”

Her eyes cooled further, if that was possible. “Then what do you want?”

I stepped aside and gestured toward the abandoned storefront behind me. The floor was smeared with dried footprints, broken glass scattered everywhere, and old blood dark against the concrete.

“Clean it,” I said.

She stared at me, genuinely thinking she’d misheard.

“…Clean it?”

“Yes.”

Silence fell heavy between us.

“You think this is funny,” she said slowly.

“No,” I said. “I think it’s practical.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “You’re hoarding food while people die, and you want me to play janitor?”

“I’m not hoarding,” I corrected. “I’m controlling.”

Her anger flared instantly, sharp and bright. “You’re disgusting.”

I watched her closely as the word left her mouth.

Nothing happened.

No panel. No flicker. No reward.

Interesting.

She must have noticed the pause, too, because her gaze flicked briefly around us, suspicious.

“You don’t get to humiliate people just because you got lucky,” she snapped. “This isn’t power. It’s cowardice.”

Still nothing.

I tilted my head slightly. “You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“And proud.”

Her lips pressed together.

“And you haven’t asked for food yet.”

Her eyes widened just a fraction before she masked it. “I shouldn’t have to beg.”

“Correct,” I said. “Begging is inefficient.”

That confused her more than anything else I’d said.

I walked past her and into the storefront, stepping carefully around the mess. She followed despite herself, stopping just inside the doorway.

“Buckets are there,” I said, pointing to a half-crushed mop bucket near the back. “Water tap still works, for now.”

She stared at the mess, then back at me. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you go back hungry,” I said. “And the rumour continues.”

She laughed once, bitterly. “You think cleaning floors is going to break me?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I think refusing will.”

Her breath hitched, just slightly.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

I met her gaze steadily. “You misunderstand. Enjoyment isn’t relevant.”

I waited.

Minutes passed.

Her hunger betrayed her before her pride did. Her shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. She crossed the room, picked up the bucket, and turned on the tap. Water sputtered out, brown at first, then clearer.

She scrubbed.

Not sloppily. Not dramatically. She cleaned like someone proving a point, jaw tight, movements sharp. Glass clinked as she swept it aside. Blood stains resisted; she scrubbed harder.

Anger radiated off her in waves.

Still nothing.

The system remained silent.

I frowned inwardly.

After nearly twenty minutes, she straightened, breathing harder now, sweat dampening her hairline. She faced me again, eyes blazing.

“There,” she said. “Satisfied?”

“No,” I replied.

Her composure cracked. “What else do you want?”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Ask.”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

“I did the work,” she said. “That was the deal.”

“I never said it was,” I replied.

Her hands shook now, just slightly. “You’re moving the line.”

“No,” I said softly. “You’re avoiding it.”

Her eyes searched my face, suddenly wary. “Avoiding what?”

“The moment you admit you need it,” I said. “Not to me. To yourself.”

She laughed again, but it was thinner this time. “You think this is some lesson?”

“I think hunger strips lies faster than fear,” I answered.

She stared at the clean floor, then at the empty room, then finally back at me.

Her voice dropped. “If I ask… you’ll give me food?”

“Yes.”

“No tricks?”

“Only honesty.”

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. Personal.

She swallowed.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

Nothing.

She clenched her fists. “I hate that you’re doing this.”

Still nothing.

Then her shoulders slumped.

“…I’m hungry,” she said.

The words were barely audible.

Her eyes flicked away from mine, cheeks burning with restrained shame. The anger didn’t vanish, but it twisted into something rawer. Exposed.

The air shimmered.

The panel appeared.

Emotional Function Points acquired: Humiliation.

Yield: High.

Behind me, the space warped.

I turned, and the tray was there. A bowl of steaming porridge, thick and fragrant. A piece of bread. A cup of clean water.

Rhea froze.

Her breath hitched audibly.

I picked up the tray and held it out.

She didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, she reached for it, hands trembling now that she wasn’t pretending otherwise. She took the bowl, sat on a crate, and ate.

Not daintily. Not desperately. But with focus. With need.

I watched the panel fade, my mind already racing.

Not obedience.

Not anger.

Humiliation.

That was the trigger.

I looked at Rhea as she ate, her composure stripped bare by hunger and truth.

Nothing was free.

And now I knew exactly what the system wanted.