The Sanctuary of 17B

Chapter 8: The Price of Bread

The small, cramped space of the apartment felt even smaller now. The air, heavy with the metallic tang of the lingering fog, was punctuated only by the shallow, ragged breathing of the four adults and the two children.

Dimas sat on the floor, his back against the cold kitchen cabinets. His eyes were fixed on the corner of the pantry, where the pile of instant noodle packets—his lifeline, his insurance policy—lay in a dwindling stack. He did the math in his head, his brow furrowed, a habit from his days of calculating frame-data and cooldown timers.

Twenty-four packs. Four adults, two kids. If everyone eats one pack a day, we’re out in four days. If we stretch it…

"You're counting again, aren't you?"

Dimas looked up. Alina was sitting a few feet away, her eyes tired but sharp. She was nursing a cup of room-temperature water, watching him with an intensity that made him want to look away.

"I’m just planning," Dimas said, his voice flat. "That’s all."

"Planning is a nice word for it," she replied. She nodded toward the corner of the room where Siti was huddled, trying to comfort a shivering Budi. The boy looked disturbingly fragile, his skin pale and his frame gaunt, almost translucent in the dim, amber glow of their sole emergency lantern. "He hasn't eaten in a long time, Dimas."

Dimas felt a flash of irritation, sharp and immediate. "I know that, Alina. I’m the one who did the inventory. I know exactly how many calories are in this room."

"Then you also know that if he doesn't get something now, he might not be around to need that dinner tomorrow," she said, her voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper.

Dimas looked at Budi. The boy’s head was resting on Siti’s shoulder, his eyes half-closed. There was no life in his movements, just a slow, mechanical shiver that went through him every few seconds.

"If I give them my stash," Dimas muttered, keeping his voice beneath the hum of the silence, "it’s gone. We have nothing left for the next three days. We’ll be begging the fog to take us by the time the weekend hits."

"We’re already begging," Alina said, her voice devoid of bite, just weary. "We’re just doing it in a room with a lock on the door."

Dimas stared at the wall. The memory of the creature outside—the scraping, the hissing, the way it had erased Pak RT—flashed through his mind. He was a survivor. He was the guy who stayed behind to hold the site, the guy who made the hard calls. But looking at Budi, the logic of his "survivor" persona felt hollow.

He stood up, his knees cracking in the quiet, and walked over to the stove.

"Dimas?" Siti looked up, her voice trembling. "Is… is everything okay?"

"I’m going to make something," Dimas said. He didn't look at her. He pulled down the packet of premium spicy ramen—the one he had been saving for his 'victory meal' when this was all over.

"Dimas, wait," Alina stood up, her hand brushing his arm. "That’s yours. You told me you were keeping that for when things settled down."

"Things aren't settling down," Dimas said, his tone clipped as he opened the packet with a sharp tear. "And I’m not hungry. Not for this."

He filled a small metal pot with half of their precious water supply. The sound of the water hitting the metal seemed deafening. He fumbled with the portable gas stove they had dragged from the storage closet. It sparked, hissed, and finally, a small blue flame flickered to life.

"You don't have to do this," Siti whispered, standing up slowly, Budi still clutched to her hip. "I can't let you—"

"Just sit down, Siti," Dimas said, his voice softer now, though still strained. "If he dies on my watch, I’m not going to be able to sleep. And if I can't sleep, I can't keep watch. So, strictly speaking, this is a tactical decision."

Alina let out a small, dry laugh. "A tactical decision, huh? You’re really leaning into that, aren't you?"

"Whatever gets me through the night," Dimas muttered.

The scent of the ramen began to fill the tiny apartment—salty, spicy, and overwhelmingly warm. It was a sensory intrusion in the stale, metallic-smelling room. Budi’s head snapped up. His eyes, previously glazed and distant, locked onto the pot.

"Smells good, huh?" Dimas asked, his voice cracking slightly. He stirred the noodles, watching them soften in the boiling water.

"I remember this," Budi whispered, his voice tiny. "Mama, it’s the one with the extra oil."

Siti stifled a sob, pressing her hand over her mouth. "Yes, baby. It is."

Dimas poured the broth into a plastic bowl and handed it to the boy. "Go ahead. Eat it slowly. Don't burn your tongue."

The boy took the bowl with trembling hands. As he took his first bite, the warmth seemed to flood back into his face. For a moment, the atmosphere in the apartment shifted. The looming dread, the suffocating presence of the fog outside, seemed to retreat just an inch.

Alina stood beside Dimas, watching the boy eat. She looked at the dwindling stack of food in the corner, then back at Dimas.

"You realize what this means, right?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the boy slurping the noodles. "We’re officially on the 'hope for the best' diet now. Three days. Maybe four, if we really stretch it."

Dimas watched the boy, feeling a strange, hollow sort of relief. The gnawing, cold anxiety in his chest hadn't gone away, but the sharp edges of his guilt had dulled.

"I know," Dimas said.

"You’re an idiot, you know that?" Alina leaned her shoulder against his, a gesture that was both supportive and biting.

"Probably," he agreed.

"But," she added, her voice softening, "you’re the kind of idiot I’d want in a foxhole with me. Even if you do complain about the snacks."

Dimas glanced at her. For the first time since they had barricaded the door, she offered him a genuine smile—not the frantic, wide-eyed look of a woman on the edge, but a quiet, tired, human smile. It wasn't much, but in the middle of a world being erased, it felt like an anchor.

"Don't get used to it," Dimas said, turning his attention back to the pantry. "I’m still going to win this game. Whatever the win condition is."

"And what’s that?" Alina asked, watching him move to the door to check the seal, his hand brushing the mop handle he still kept close by.

"Getting everyone out," Dimas said, his voice low and firm. "That’s the objective. And I don't quit until the screen says 'Victory'."

He looked back at the room. Budi was smiling, a small, tentative thing. Siti was crying silently, but she looked like a mother again, not a ghost. Sarah was nodding at him from her corner, and Alina—Alina was still looking at him with that same, steady gaze.

The apartment was still a trap. The fog was still outside, pressing against the glass like a living thing, waiting for them to lose their names. But as Dimas checked the barricade one more time, testing the strength of the tape and the weight of the furniture, he felt a strange, cold clarity.

They were hungry. They were terrified. They were running out of time.

But they were still there.

"Sarah," Dimas called out, turning back to the group. "Get some sleep. Alina, take the second watch with me. We need to watch the vent in the kitchen. I have a feeling those things in the walls aren't done yet."

"I’m ready," Alina said, her voice steady.

Dimas sat down on the floor, the empty noodle packet crumpled in his hand. He smoothed it out, staring at the brand name, forcing himself to memorize the colors, the fonts, the ridiculous marketing slogans.

I am Dimas Arga, he thought, his pulse syncing with the quiet rhythm of the apartment. I live in unit 3B. I am twenty-two. I am going to get us out.

Outside, a low, guttural moan echoed through the hallway, vibrating the floorboards. Dimas didn't flinch. He tightened his grip on the mop handle, leaned his back against the wall, and waited for the next move.

The game wasn't over. Not yet.