Òyì nke e mepụtara

Isolated Cravings The outpost was a concrete bunker buried in the ass-end of nowhere, wind howling like a beast outside the reinforced walls. Supplies dropped every four months—canned crap, water purifiers, and whatever scraps of civilization they could cram into a chopper. Inside, the air hung thick with recycled oxygen and the unspoken itch of isolation. Dad, Marcus, was built like a tank from years of manual labor, his broad shoulders straining against faded fatigues. Mom, Lena, kept the pla