"You turn tribute into an insult," the Captain observed his voice impassive as he measured Sera as if she were a gate. "You turn the list into a joke."

"The list was always a joke." She nudged a toe at a laminated placard someone had zip-tied to the post: 90% SUPPLIES • VEHICLES • WOMAN.

The corner had curled in the heat like it wanted to hide. "You know it, or you wouldn’t be out here instead of letting your boys collect the poor women who only want to survive."

He didn’t flinch at woman. That earned him a sliver of respect. "You bring a problem into my district. A problem with teeth."

"You are mistaken. I am the solution to the problem with teeth," she corrected, nodding past him at the city.

Walls were patched with steel; windows were meshed together; watch posts holding more discipline than most warbands could buy.

"You want dead men who don’t feed the river? You want caravans to make it past the slow herds of zombies at dusk? You want your kids to walk to water and back with both arms? Stand down and let us pass. We won’t collect your taxes for you, but we won’t cost you any more bodies today."

The scarf moved like a small smile lived under it. "You plan to be in my world long enough for your promises to matter?"

"Long enough," she allowed. "And in the south long enough that your General can decide whether he wants to talk to us or try to pen us."

"Pen you." He almost laughed; the sound darkened at the edges like he remembered too many cages to find humor in them. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

The Captain tugged the scarf down at last, his eyes sharp. A scar lifted the left side of his upper lip where a dog had made a point.

"Rafael Cortez," he introduced, like the name itself was proof he’d been here before anybody had the nerve to paint jawbones on banners. "Captain. River branch."

"Sera," she returned with a slight nod of her head. "I suggest you remember it."

His gaze flicked once to Luci, to Zubair’s wrist, to Alexei’s breath smoking the drum, to Lachlan’s blue skin, to Elias’s front sight never leaving the soft between his eyes. "I think everyone will remember you after this."

"Good." She let the word be what it was. "Here are my terms."

He huffed. "Of course."

"You stop the tolls on this span for anyone who isn’t wearing red or a crown and who isn’t hauling slaves."

She lifted a finger before his jaw could lock. "I don’t care what you call them. If you chain them, if you sell them, if you trade women under any name, you’re the enemy. You want tithe? Take scrap. Take tools. Take rice. You touch people, you lose men."

She felt Zubair’s attention press closer in approval and didn’t look back.

"I don’t control all the bridges," Rafael warned. "I control this one. The next on in the south. A handful to the west. Others belong to different hands."

"Start here," she returned. "Word runs faster than you do."

"What do I get that isn’t a sermon?"

"Today? Your people keep breathing. Tomorrow? A road that stays open because the zombie herds will avoid it and the raiders learn fear where it belongs. We don’t clear your lanes for you. But if we meet something ugly, we don’t drag it back to your doorstep."

He considered. Engines idled and overheated. The river threw spray into the wind and salted the air. Someone on the barricade coughed, then throttled it off when Rafael’s hand flicked.

"You think I can sell that to a man who hates paying for favors," he tested.

"I think you know how to sell survival," she returned. "Or you wouldn’t still be wearing that coat."

He looked at the burned hem like he hadn’t noticed the scorch.

Then he pulled the scarf down the rest of the way and raised both hands, palms out, to his line.

"Stand down," he ordered. "Full. Anyone twitches without me telling him to, I nail his hands to the mast on the northmost truck and drive him around the district until he remembers manners."

The rifles dropped as a unit. Not sloppy. Not perfect. Enough.

Sera lifted her hand in mirror, no flourish.

"Weapons low," she told the horde. Elias’s muzzle dipped a measured inch. Lachlan let the rifle hang and rolled his shoulder until the blood tack across his ribs stretched, then stilled.

Alexei blew a thin frost on the nearest sandbag to put out a stubborn tongue of flame. Zubair turned his palms down and the heat sank into his bones until the air stopped wobbling.

Rafael stepped over the low, obedient fire and took three more paces in. Close enough to die if anyone wanted that. Close enough to talk like people instead of flags.

"You don’t strike me as someone who trades in contracts and paperwork," he offered. "But the road likes rules."

"Rules are fine," she returned. "Let’s start with simple ones."

He tilted his head. "I’m listening."

"You give us ten minutes, we clear the lanes—bodies, scrap, your barrels. You keep your heavy guns aimed at the dirt and your boys’ fingers off triggers. We pass your first street, and you give us a map of your district—bridges, wells, places you’d rather we avoid so we don’t step on your business by accident. In return, we don’t step on your business on purpose."

He snorted. "You’d be surprised how many men don’t believe in accident."

"I don’t," she acknowledged. "But I believe in clarity."

A beat. Two.

He gave the smallest nod. "You get your ten. You get a runner with a street map, the last convoy ledger, and two cans of clean gas because you made me burn mine." His gaze slipped to the laminated list at the post, then back. "We’ll make a correction. It was... wrong."

"It was stupid," Alexei corrected, his voice dry enough to scrape.

Rafael didn’t bite.

He jerked two fingers at the nearest gun team. "Lower the plates. Dump the barrels." Then to the next group: "Get that trash off the span. You, Ramirez—radio off. We handle this in person."