The Sanctuary of 17B

Chapter 9: Unit 17B Code of Conduct

The morning light didn’t really break into the apartment; it simply shifted from a pitch-black void to a sickly, jaundiced grey that seeped through the edges of the heavy-duty tape on the windows. Dimas blinked, his neck stiff from sleeping against the hard edge of the kitchen cabinet. His arm was asleep, and his head throbbed with the familiar, low-grade hum of dehydration.

He shifted, and his boot knocked against the empty noodle packet from last night. It made a crinkling sound that seemed far too loud in the oppressive silence.

"Hey, watch it," Alina whispered from across the room. She was sitting up, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes already tracking the movement of the shadows outside the front door.

"Sorry," Dimas muttered, rubbing his face. "I thought I was still in the game. I keep dreaming I'm mid-clutch."

"You were talking in your sleep again," she said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Something about 'rotating to C-site.' You take this too seriously, Dimas."

"It’s the only way to stay sane, Alina. If I start treating this like a holiday, I’m going to end up like the others."

Suddenly, a sharp clink erupted from the center of the room. Dimas froze. Budi, who had been trying to crawl across the linoleum to reach his mother, had bumped his shoulder into the glass of water Sarah had placed on a low crate. The glass tipped, sending a thin, crystalline stream of water spilling across the floor.

"No, no, no!" Sarah gasped, lunging forward to catch the glass, but it was already too late.

The water pooled, soaking into the dusty floorboards. Siti let out a strangled cry, her hands flying to her mouth. "Budi! Careful, sayang! We don’t have more!"

Budi shrank back, his lower lip trembling. "I’m sorry, Mama. I just wanted to reach the toy."

Dimas was on his feet in a second. He grabbed a rag from the counter, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knelt, frantically trying to soak up the spill before it evaporated or seeped through the cracks into the sub-floor.

"That was half our ration for the next four hours," Dimas said, his voice tight. He squeezed the rag into a small metal cup, watching with grim satisfaction as a pathetic amount of water trickled into the bottom. "We can't do this. We’re four adults and two kids, and we’re moving like we’re in a dorm room. If we keep wasting resources like this, we won't last until tomorrow."

Alina stood up, walking over to join him. She looked at the small pile of supplies, then at the terrified faces of the other survivors. "He’s right. We need a system. We’re living like scavengers."

"What do you suggest?" Sarah asked, clutching Leo to her side. "We’re already doing our best."

"Your best isn't good enough," Dimas said, standing up. He grabbed a white marker and the small whiteboard he usually used for his streaming schedule—a relic of his past life that now felt like it belonged to a different century. He hung it on the wall near the door.

He uncapped the marker and wrote in bold, jagged letters: UNIT 17B HOUSE RULES.

"Number one," Dimas began, tapping the board. "Bathroom timers. Five minutes, no more. If you're not out, you're out. We don't waste water on vanity."

"Five minutes?" Siti asked, her voice small.

"Every drop is a heartbeat, Siti," Dimas said, his eyes hard. "Number two: chores. Sarah, you’re on supply duty. You track every pack, every can, every drop. If you don't log it, you don't touch it. Alina, you’re enforcement. You make sure the doors stay sealed and the perimeter is checked. I’m handling defense and the vent-seal rotation."

Alina crossed her arms, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "And what about you, manager? What’s your chore?"

"I keep us breathing," Dimas replied. "I keep the log of the 'outside.' If the patterns of those things change, I’m the one who decides if we move. And everyone, absolutely everyone, maintains silence between 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM. If I hear a single whisper, we have a problem."

"It’s a bit fascist, isn't it?" Alina joked, though she took the marker from his hand and began drawing a roster under his rules.

"It’s survival," Dimas countered. "I’ve spent thousands of hours in lobbies with people who didn't listen to instructions. The ones who did? They ranked up. The ones who didn't? They got wiped in the first round. We are in the first round, and I don't intend to lose."

Siti stood up, clutching Budi’s hand. She looked at the whiteboard, then back at the meager supply of food. "If we’re going to be this organized, let me take the kitchen. I know how to make things stretch. My grandmother taught me how to make a soup out of scraps that could feed a village. If we put all our cans and noodles into one pot, I can make something that’ll keep us full longer than just eating straight from the pack."

Dimas looked at her. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes were steady. He nodded slowly. "Alright. But you use the measured amount of water. Nothing more."

"Understood," Siti said, moving toward the gas stove.

The next hour was transformed. The chaotic, fearful energy of the apartment shifted into a rhythmic, almost mechanical routine. Sarah recorded the inventory with agonizing precision. Alina patrolled the edges of the room, checking the tape on the windows, her mop handle in hand like a spear.

When the smell of the soup began to drift through the room—a warm, savory scent that fought back the metallic tang of the fog—the tension in the room seemed to drop.

"It’s ready," Siti announced, ladling the thick, cloudy broth into individual cups.

They sat in a circle, the hierarchy of their new world established. Dimas watched as each person received their portion. Budi took his cup, blowing on it softly, his small face illuminated by the amber glow of the lantern.

"This is good," Sarah whispered, a rare smile touching her tired features. "Thank you, Siti."

"It’s just... it’s better than sitting in the dark, isn't it?" Siti replied, her eyes damp.

Dimas took a sip of his own portion. It was mostly salt and starch, but it felt like a meal. For a brief, flickering moment, he felt like he was just hanging out in the unit again, waiting for a match to load.

"We do this every day," Dimas said, his voice firm. "We stick to the timer. We stick to the log. We stay in the light."

"And if someone breaks a rule?" Alina asked, leaning back against the wall.

"They lose their ration," Dimas said without a second of hesitation.

"Harsh," Alina laughed softly. "I like it."

They ate in silence, the rhythm of the room feeling more natural than it had in days. It was a fragile stability, a house of cards built against the wind, but it was theirs. Dimas felt the weight of the mop handle resting against his leg, a grounding presence in the middle of the madness.

He was about to suggest a rotation for the next watch when a sound ripped through the apartment.

Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.

It wasn't a thump. It wasn't a roar. It was the delicate, deliberate sound of fingernails—or claws—tracing a pattern on the exterior glass of the balcony.

The room went deathly still. Siti dropped her spoon. Budi let out a soft, terrified whimper, and Sarah covered his mouth instantly, her eyes wide with panic.

Dimas set his cup down on the floor. He didn't move his eyes from the balcony door. The scratching slowed, then stopped.

A shadow, long and thin, stretched across the floor, cast by the moonlight that had just managed to pierce the thick, grey smog outside. It moved across the carpet toward them, slowly, deliberately.

"Dimas," Alina whispered, her hand tightening around her weapon.

"I see it," Dimas said, his voice barely a breath.

The scratching started again, but this time, it was accompanied by a voice. It was his own voice, coming from the balcony, perfect in its pitch, chilling in its clarity.

"Dimas? Are you still playing? The match is about to start."

Dimas stared at the door. He felt the cold, familiar spike of adrenaline in his veins—the exact feeling of a one-versus-three clutch.

"Don't move," he whispered to the others. "Don't look at the door. Keep your eyes on me."

He stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum, and reached for the light.

"The match," he whispered, a grim smile forming on his lips as he tightened his grip on the mop handle, "is already over."