The Ironhowl's tires cut quietly through gray sludge as Raven guided the SUV through the shrinking arteries of the city. Traffic had thinned even further since morning. More stores were boarded. More people walked like they didn't know where they were going. A heavy silence pressed down on everything—coated in the whine of sirens and the low crackle of distant radio chatter from National Guard checkpoints cropping up like tumors.
She passed a pharmacy with a line stretching around the block and another food truck with hazard tape on the wheels. Police cruisers idled under blinking lights at intersections that no longer needed regulation. Above it all, the sky sagged with clouds heavy enough to bruise.
Raven didn't look twice. She had her next destination locked in: a cracked lot on the edge of East Harlem, tucked between a shuttered laundromat and a failing pawn shop.
The faded sign above the door read: Second Haven Resale & Aid Center.
It was the kind of place her family would have called "low-rent charity trash." Victoria wouldn't have set foot within a block of it. Brandon would've rolled his eyes and locked the doors. But Raven saw it for what it really was: the kind of place that sold anonymity by the pound.
She pulled into the parking lot, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cold with the hiss of boots on wet concrete. Her breath fogged in the air as she walked across the slush-dotted pavement toward the chipped glass entrance.
Inside, the shop smelled of mothballs, old flannel, and floor cleaner that couldn't hide the underlying must. Industrial lamps buzzed faintly overhead. Fluorescent shadows crawled across racks of coats, bins of jeans, and stacks of worn leather boots. A thin man in his forties looked up from behind the counter with the haunted look of someone who hadn't had a full shift off in weeks.
"What can I help you find today?" he asked, polite but tired.
Raven didn't hesitate. "Show me all your second-hand clothing. Men's and women's. Durable."
He blinked, a little surprised, but nodded. "Back left, then follow the rows down. Jackets, winter gear, overalls, boots. We got a whole lot in bulk recently from a donation drive."
She nodded once and moved past him, hands sliding into her jacket pockets as she stepped into the racks of the forgotten.
Rows of faded denim hung in uneven waves. Thick flannel shirts with missing buttons. Camouflage jackets that had seen real dirt. Military surplus coats with frayed cuffs and stitched patches. Sweat-stained hoodies, work vests, fleece layers with years behind them. Footwear stacked in battered towers: steel-toe boots, trail shoes, rubber work soles worn soft at the heels.
She walked slowly between them, fingertips brushing over the fabric.
Clean, expensive clothes had gotten people killed in her last life. A flash of color, a designer tag, boots too new to be broken in—those were marks of wealth. And wealth attracted attention. Raiders watched for people with polish. Bandits tracked their stride. Even zombies, dumb as they were, had followed brightness in the dark. White sneakers, yellow coats, shiny buckles. Movement. Flash. Color. Blood. Any self-respecting survivor knew if you stand out in the apocalypse it only means a quicker death.
She stopped in front of a rack of grease-streaked mechanics jackets and touched the threadbare shoulder of one.
In the apocalypse, the goal wasn't to look strong. It wasn't to look prepared. The smartest survivors looked like they'd already lost everything.
The best way to stay alive was to look like no one worth noticing.
She started pulling pieces down—shirts with worn collars, jeans a size too big, jackets that sagged at the arms. Layerable. Reversible. Easy to lose in a crowd. Nothing too tight. Nothing too fresh. Some heavy-duty gloves. Several military-style cargo pants with deep side pockets. Four weather-beaten coats that looked warm enough for snowstorms. Scarves. Hats. Even a few threadbare backpacks with intact zippers.
She made piles. One for men. One for women. A mixed-size spread that could fit whoever she needed to outfit later. Whether that meant rescued survivors, bartered favors, or a base crew down the line—she didn't care yet. She was collecting for a future they couldn't see coming.
By the time she returned to the front counter, the tired worker blinked at the small mountain she rolled up in two carts.
"You opening a shelter or something?" he asked, his tone not judgmental—just dazed.
Raven didn't answer. She pulled her father's corporate black credit card from her coat and slid it across the counter.
The man didn't ask again. He rang her up, hands twitching only slightly at the total, and swiped the card without further comment.
As the receipt printed, she handed him a folded slip of paper with an address and instructions.
"Deliver it all to this warehouse. Mark it for Salvatore Procurement intake. There's an open inventory bay listed. Someone will receive it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Salvatore… like the arms company?"
"Like the family," she said quietly.
He nodded slowly, the connection making sense now.
"Got it."
Raven tapped the receipt once, took it, then turned and walked out without another word. The weight of the clothes in the Ironhowl's trunk settled against the frame as she opened it and packed in a few hand-selected outfits—ones she'd need to wear during the next few days while she finished her preparations.
The rest would go into Sanctuary later once she returned to the warehouse.
She shut the trunk and stood in the lot for a moment, watching as a gust of wind tugged at a discarded plastic bag drifting toward the gutter. In the distance, she could hear the low hiss of tires over wet pavement and the faint rhythmic bark of a loudspeaker repeating a safety order about curfew compliance.
Her breath came out slow.
Let the rich dress like royalty in the wasteland.
She would dress like the dead—and keep walking.
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