- Like Harun. Like a wet puppy.

  - Innocent, polite, disarming.

  - Don’t get too into it though.

  - Don't let others mistake kindness as harmlessness

  ---

  The walls were ugly in the best way.

  Cement and rebar fused with rusted sedans, wooden fences stitched with corrugated sheet metal, even what looked like a crumpled billboard that once advertised cheap fast food and cheaper tax services. It all screamed one thing: desperation with a dash of genius.

  Harun looked up at it, eyes wide. “That’s… kind of beautiful.”

  “Like modern art after a war,” I muttered.

  "How did they even do that? Did they use cranes and dozers? That means they have the resources."

  We stepped forward, hands visible, non-threatening, polite to the point of parody.

  Harun smiled like the world was still worth it.

  I practiced the exact angle of not-suspicious interest, just in case there were snipers watching.

  “We heard the broadcast,” I said as we reached the gate. “We’re travelers from Cleveland. Looking to talk. Maybe trade.”

  There was a pause. The wind blew. Then-

  A loud metal clang.

  The gates opened.

  No weapons pointed at us. No demands. Just two guards, in patchwork armor made of old sports pads and biker gear, waving us inside like we’d been invited to a picnic.

  Harun bowed.

  I gave a nod.

  Inside the colony, I expected rough shacks and broken tents.

  What I saw instead was... civilization.

  The wall surrounded two entire apartment complexes, a wet and dry market strung together with tarps and repurposed umbrellas, and a mall, yes, an actual mall, refitted with lights, hand-painted signs, and strings of decorations. There were people. Children. Laughter. Music playing from salvaged speakers. A dog barked in the distance. The air even smelled faintly of something fried.

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  Hundreds of people moved about like this was normal.

  One of the guards, a tall woman with a ponytail and tactical goggles, gave us the tour. Market first. Fresh produce. Canned goods. Batteries. Handmade soaps.

  Then the mall, which now served as the colony’s hub. A repurposed food court doubled as a council chamber. Old clothing stores now clinics and offices. The arcade was still somehow an arcade.

  “We try to hold onto the past where we can,” the guard said with a smile.

  Lastly, the apartments. She led us to a unit on the third floor, unlocked it, and handed us the key.

  “You can stay here for now. The colony leader’s tied up, but someone’ll reach out once he’s available. Shouldn’t be more than a day.”

  I thanked her, even smiled back.

  She left.

  The door clicked shut.

  I didn’t speak. Not yet. Just dug into my bag, found the folded piece of paper I pre-wrote, and slid it over to Harun.

  His brow furrowed as he opened it.

  "This place might be bugged. If Alex can do it, others can too. Watch what we say." The paper said.

  Harun glanced up, gave me a slow thumbs-up.

  Then, like we were just two old friends with no secrets and no paranoia, he said, “They’re really hospitable here.”

  I nodded. “Way better than a lot of the places we’ve seen.”

  He unzipped his pack, pulled out something like it was sacred.

  A chessboard.

  Wooden. A little worn. The pieces clacked softly as he placed them.

  “Do you play?”

  I smiled. “You kidding? I’m the kind of guy who overthinks a pawn’s moral alignment.”

  We set up the board on the small dining table. No one said much else.

  Each piece moved with care. Silence filled the space between us, thick with unsaid words and quiet observations. We watched each other’s eyes more than the board.

  The apartment was simple, two beds, a table, a pantry half-stocked with preserved goods. Clean. Almost too clean.

  I pushed a knight forward. “So. If this was a video game, what alignment are these guys?”

  Harun didn’t look up. “Lawful neutral, leaning good. But the law part? That’s what scares me.”

  “Yeah,” I said, slowly. “It always does.”

  We played on.

  Two pawns clashed in the center of the board.

  Neither of us looked away.

  And somewhere in the silence of that apartment, I realized this was what it felt like to be the bait. Friendly. Open. Defenseless.

  Just another wet puppy with a smile and a story.

  But behind Harun’s gentle demeanor and my dumb grin…

  We were already planning every move.

  Every escape.

  Every possible checkmate.

  ---

  It wasn’t just that it was clean.

  It was too clean.

  Next morning, after a polite knock and two smiling faces delivering breakfast, actual eggs and something pretending to be bacon, Harun and I asked if we could walk around the colony a bit more.

  They said yes. Of course they did. And even gave us a "courtesy escort" just in case we got lost. They said it with a chuckle. Like we were dumb tourists.

  We smiled back.

  But I watched everything. Every detail.

  The mall's flooring had been mopped. Daily, by the looks of it. The food court didn’t just function, it ran on a rotation schedule, posted in neat print on a whiteboard by the old Orange Julius. The chairs weren’t scattered. They were organized. Labeled by group.

  "Are we in a Costco cult?" I muttered under my breath as we walked.

  Harun didn’t answer. He was watching too now.

  Outside, the wet market buzzed. People actually chatted with the vendors. A kid ran by holding a piece of fruit bigger than his hand. A guy repaired bike tires at a stand near the gate. One woman sold old DVDs and player sets with hand-cranked batteries.

  “Do they screen movies?” Harun asked one of the guards.

  “Yeah,” the guy said with a grin. “Last week was Shrek 2. We do a poll.”

  Harun looked delighted. He even shared his pasta recipes.

  I smiled too.

  But inside, something kept ticking louder.

  This place had everything. Food, power, rotation jobs, entertainment, structure.

  Too much structure.

  We passed a classroom, an actual classroom, set up in one of the converted mall shops. Twenty kids, real kids, learning how to read.

  And another thing.

  There were no outbursts. No arguments. Not even muttered swears. Nobody asking for more food, or stealing, or shouting about ration tickets.

  It was perfect.

  Too perfect.

  As we passed one of the apartment buildings, I stopped and pointed at a bulletin board.

  “Mind if I take a look?” I asked the escort guard.

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  I pretended to read. But really, I studied the fine print.

  Notices. Schedules. Volunteer rosters.

  And beneath it all: Incident Reports.

  Only three, dated from two weeks ago. All labeled “resolved.”

  Resolved how?

  “Everything okay?” Harun asked.

  “Peachy,” I said.

  We kept walking.

  A woman greeted us near the end of the row of buildings, waving from her balcony. She asked us where we were from. I lied and said, “A few places.” She offered us canned peaches.

  I took them with thanks. Harun was genuinely touched.

  “She reminded me of my neighbor,” he said as we walked away.

  I didn’t respond.

  My eyes locked on a man standing by the guard tower. He wore a maintenance vest but didn’t hold any tools. His eyes weren’t scanning the walls. They were scanning us.

  And when I turned to look at him directly, he looked away too fast.

  “Harun,” I said, too low for the guards to hear, “I don’t trust this.”

  He looked at me, a crease forming between his brows.

  “I don’t either,” he whispered back.

  Not just a feeling now.

  Something was off.

  And I could feel it in my spine like cold water creeping upward.