The main hall was more crowded than ever before. Mats, backpacks, and scattered blankets had been pushed to the sides, creating a makeshift open space in the center. Kerosene lamps cast unstable light, causing shadows to dance across the cracked walls. The air was thick—not with heat, but with tension.
Grzywacz entered without a word, followed by Layra, Kosman, Adam, Sareth, and Brann. They formed a half-circle around one of the tables, which now served as a podium. Dozens of eyes turned toward them.
"Thank you for coming," Grzywacz said, his voice calm, unadorned. "I know you're tired. Hungry. Scared. But we can't keep drifting without direction."
Someone in the crowd cleared their throat. Another whispered, "What do they want now?"
Yet another muttered, "I heard there was some meeting last night..."
"Last night," Grzywacz continued, "after talking with some of you, we established rules. Simple. Transparent. For everyone. A system that will help us survive—not for a week or a month—but for as long as necessary."
He paused. Murmurs spread through the crowd. Adam glanced around, reading the room. Some faces looked hopeful, as if someone had finally voiced what they were all feeling. Others were indifferent, emotionally checked out. But there were also those filled with suspicion.
"Funny how no one asked us," grumbled a bearded man against the wall.
"They had their meeting in secret," a woman whispered.
"And now they're telling us how to live?" someone in the back added with a bitter laugh.
But on the opposite side of the hall, someone murmured, "At least someone's doing something..." Another nodded in relief. A young boy with a broken arm raised it slightly and said, "If we want a chance, it has to start with rules."
"Contribution Points," Grzywacz said clearly. "From now on, anyone who contributes to the base earns points. For fighting. For shifts. For caregiving. For cooking. For organizing. These points can be exchanged for better rations, medicine, sleeping spots. This isn't a reward. It's justice."
"Justice?" someone in the crowd spoke up. A young man with dark hair stepped forward. "What about those who can't fight? Or are too scared? Are we supposed to starve?"
A few people nodded silently.
"That's why there are points for other help as well," Kosman replied calmly. "Kitchen, medicine, logistics. But no one can just take. Everyone has to give something."
"What about kids? The elderly?" a woman near the wall asked quietly. She held the hand of a little girl with light hair.
Layra stepped forward.
Taking care of children also earns points," she said. "But it has to be real. Logged. We'll keep a daily activity journal. I'll oversee it. If someone lies—they're out of the system. And if someone catches another person deceiving intentionally and reports it—they'll earn points too. Truth helps everyone survive.
Her words sparked a stir. "Kicked out?" "For what?!" Voices rose, murmurs turned to noise. Someone stood and shouted, "This is tyranny! No one voted for this!"
Another woman yelled, "You're threatening my kids because they don't have points?!"
Some people rose; others tried to calm them. Voices overlapped—fear, anger, panic. Someone sobbed in the back, another whispered, "It's starting. The rule of the strong."
Kosman raised his hands, trying to be heard over the noise:
"Calm down! This is why we're setting rules instead of letting chaos rule. The system isn't meant to punish you—it's meant to let us function. No one wants to expel people—but we can't let everyone do whatever they want anymore."
Grzywacz stepped down from the table and moved among the crowd. His voice was cold, but clear:
"I understand your concerns. And you have a right to feel them. But if you're afraid of having to earn what you get, then let me be clear: better to be afraid now than to starve in three days. This system exists so you don't have to fear every bite. But you'll have to work for it."
The room gradually quieted. Some people sank back into their places; others lowered their eyes. The tension still lingered, but it felt more like exhaustion than rebellion. Someone muttered, "Maybe this makes sense…" Another added, "At least something's happening."
That's when a question came from the side of the hall:
"What if someone is falsely accused?"
The voice was calm, but laced with unease. Grzywacz raised his head immediately.
"Anyone who makes a false accusation will be removed instantly. No negotiations. No second chances. The system works both ways. It protects the honest. But there will be no mercy for liars and manipulators."
Silence.
Looking into the frightened faces, Adam felt a weight he could no longer ignore. No one spoke, but their eyes screamed—fear, helplessness, longing. In that moment, he knew he had to say something.
"This isn't a game," he said softly, yet firmly. "This isn't some cartoon system meant to entertain us or give the illusion of progress. It's more than that. It's a foundation, a filter, a mirror. It shows who acts—and who waits for someone else to die in their place."
His gaze moved across the crowd—faces blurred by shadows, yet sharp with emotion. He paused on a little girl beside her mother, then on the boy with the broken arm. His fists clenched.
"I…" he faltered, his voice breaking slightly. "I don't know if I'll ever see my parents again. I don't know if they're alive. If they survived the first day. Or if…" he stopped. "If I'll ever hear their voices again."
He took a deep breath. Not to calm himself—but to hold himself together.
"But I know I'm not the only one. You see… we've all lost something. Or we're afraid we will. We all fall asleep with questions that have no answers. Will someone find me? Will I survive until tomorrow? Do I even have someone left to return to?"
"And that's exactly why…" He looked back at the crowd, not with anger this time, but something deeper. "That's why we need to create something here that won't collapse. Not for me. Not just for you. For everyone still breathing. For everyone searching for light in this darkness."
He paused. No one dared breathe loudly.
"This system, these points, these rules—they're not here to limit us. They're here so we have something to lean on. Something that won't vanish when things get truly bad."
"But one person won't build this. Nor five. We need every one of you. Because every person here is a brick. And we… we're building a wall against the end of the world."
His voice was quiet at the end. But it carried. And it sunk deep.
"Help us. Help yourselves. Because if we give up… there'll be nothing left but fear, hunger, and a silence no one can break."
No one moved at first. People stared at Adam, unsure what to do with the weight of his words. Someone lowered their head, clenching their hands on their knees. Another woman silently wiped her eyes.
In the front row, an old man nodded slowly, and a girl in a torn sweater whispered, "He's right…"
From the back of the hall, someone began clapping. One. Then another. Then a third. Then more.
It wasn't applause of euphoria. It was the sound of people deciding not to give up.
Layra reached for her notebook.
"First entry," she said softly, though tension was evident in her voice. Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the notebook on the table, as if the act of writing was about to solidify something larger than mere numbers. "This isn't just a system. It's our first step toward order. The first day of Contribution Points. The first day of a new beginning."
A shadow of something resembling pride crossed Grzywacz's face. Kosman sighed and began handing out activity forms. Adam remained silent, watching the people who, for the first time since the apocalypse… had rules.
Not everyone was pleased. But everyone listened.
In the shadows near one of the columns at the back of the hall stood Ternwald. He didn't clap. He didn't speak. His eyes—cold, piercing—tracked Layra, Kosman, and Adam with intense focus. His lips were tight, hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
At the same moment, Grzywacz looked at his watch, then turned to the others and said under his breath:
"Time to go. We can't delay."
He approached a group and spoke louder:
"The expedition leaves in five minutes. Adam, Sareth, and Nira—you're with me. Layra, Kosman—you'll stay and coordinate the rest of the system."
Grzywacz stepped toward Brann and leaned in to whisper:
"You're staying too. In case anyone tries anything foolish. Stay close to Layra and keep an eye on everyone."
Brann raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He nodded and moved to Layra, whispering something in her ear. Then he turned and joined her and Kosman at one of the makeshift tables, where they began accepting the first volunteers for the system.
Meanwhile, Adam, Sareth, Nira, and Grzywacz grabbed the pre-packed bags and empty backpacks. Without a word, they glanced one last time at the hall, then headed toward the exit. In silence. Fully aware that beyond the walls, nothing was certain—only danger, and the need to earn everything from scratch.