Night had fallen. Back at the refugee camp, Mad Dog asked again, "Is Black Dog back yet?"

"No, boss. He sent word at midday, saying he'd found where our guys were ambushed – the Garden Station. He took twenty-odd men to hunt down whoever did it."

"With that many men, he should be back by now," Mad Dog grumbled, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. Logically, Black Dog and his crew should be more than a match for anyone, but the lengthening silence was unsettling.

"Send another group. Find out what's going on."

A dozen men set off for the Garden Station.

Meanwhile, Thomas studied a map with a serious expression.

[Sparrow City White Tower District Map]

Type: Intel Item

Inventory Size: 2x1

Description: A detailed map of Sparrow City's White Tower District.

For the first time, Thomas had a clear picture of the area. He located the subway station – midway between the district's center and its edge. Not ideal, but not terrible. He also found the Crimson Cabaret, just one stop away, and Apartment 15, situated between the Cabaret and the next station. The map indicated it was a middle-class residential area, with a large supermarket, a luxury car dealership, and a bank nearby. A building labeled "Trading Center" was circled in red, with the words "HQ" scrawled beside it.

"So that's their nest," Thomas muttered, tucking the map away. It was a valuable piece of intel.

He then pulled out a key.

[Pinewood Hotel Room 903 Key]

Effect: Unlocks room 903 at the Pinewood Hotel.

Both items were from the refugee leader he'd killed. The key likely belonged to a private stash. The thought made him eager to investigate.

He now had two potential targets: Apartment 15, for which he had three keys, and the Pinewood Hotel room. Conveniently, the hotel was right next to the apartment building, separated only by the bank.

He'd decide his next move based on the Super Monopoly event tomorrow. Exhausted from the day's events, he dumped his loot in a corner of his hideout and fell asleep.

Fifteen minutes later, the group sent by Mad Dog arrived at the Garden Station.

"Why's it so dark?" one whispered.

"Quiet. Lights on. Stay alert," the leader ordered, a sense of foreboding settling over him. This didn't look good.

They spread out, searching the station. They found the bloodstains and signs of a struggle in the control room. As they neared the tunnel, one of them shone his light down the passage.

"Boss, there's something down there."

"Let's take a look."

They moved cautiously into the tunnel. A wave of shock washed over them.

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"That's…3cm!" one exclaimed, recognizing a body.

"And there's more…"

"That looks like Doggy!"

They shone their lights further down the tunnel. One, two, three… twenty-seven bodies. Five killed with knives, the rest riddled with bullets and shrapnel wounds. The leader stared at Black Dog's lifeless, bloodshot eyes, terror gripping his heart.

Black Dog and his entire crew, wiped out. This was a planned ambush. If the attackers were still around, his group didn't stand a chance.

The other refugees were equally terrified. Many had shared drinks with the dead just the night before.

"Everyone! Retreat! Now!" the leader yelled, snapping a few pictures of the carnage.

They fled back to the camp, the dark maw of the subway tunnel seeming to swallow the light behind them.

"What?! Black Dog and his men… all dead in the tunnel?!" Mad Dog roared.

"Boss, here are the pictures. Their gear and weapons are gone. Just bodies left behind."

"This was a planned hit, boss."

Mad Dog examined the photos, his face a mask of fury. "Who the hell is behind this? Caban? The Butcher?"

He studied the city map. "Caban's at the car dealership. The Butcher's at the theater. The tunnel leads in their direction. And the Crimson Cabaret is right at the edge of our territories…"

"Damn it. Are they trying to play me?"

He couldn't be sure, but he had to react. He couldn't appear weak.

"Get The Bayonet," he ordered.

Ten minutes later, a figure clad in black, a skull mask covering their face, stood before Mad Dog.

"Bayonet, you heard what happened. Black Dog and his men are dead. That's nearly forty men in the last few days."

"Only Caban and The Butcher have the muscle to pull this off. I want you to send a message. Make them pay. And be discreet."

The Bayonet nodded and vanished into the night.

Mad Dog took a long drag of his cigar, his eyes narrowed. "Caban, Butcher… even if it wasn't you, don't blame me for what comes next."

News of Black Dog's demise spread like wildfire. Nearly forty of Mad Dog's men were dead. Even rival gang leaders were surprised. Mad Dog wasn't well-liked, but his crew was formidable. Whoever orchestrated this was a serious threat.

After confirming their own men weren't involved, the other leaders watched with a mixture of amusement and caution. Forty armed men, wiped out without a trace. They all wondered if their own crews could handle such an attack.

"Mad Dog must have stepped on some serious toes," was the general consensus. Orders went out to their respective gangs: "Stay low. Avoid the subway. Don't make any waves."

They waited, eager to see Mad Dog's next move, and more importantly, to see if any opportunity arose to seize his territory. Refugees were like hyenas, always looking for weakness.

Six hours after the bodies were discovered, a new visitor arrived at the Garden Station. A pitch-black blip appeared on the virtual map, moving silently through the tunnels. Insects and rodents dropped dead in its wake. A phantom of death, unseen, unheard, and utterly lethal.

Black Dog's crew was gone, leaving only bloodstains, bullet holes, and the faint scent of gunpowder. The figure examined everything meticulously – the blood, the bullet trajectories, the grenade craters. Satisfied, it vanished as silently as it had arrived.

"What?! Only two people? Impossible!" Mad Dog roared.

"Are you questioning me?" a voice hissed from the shadows.

"N-no, Ghostface, sir. It's just… unbelievable. Twenty armed men…"

Ghostface, his masked face invisible in the darkness, sneered. "Mad Dog, don't forget who put you in this position."

Mad Dog broke out in a cold sweat. "Of course, Ghostface, sir. I wouldn't be here without you."

"Good. Now you know. Find these two."

Day four of the apocalypse. Three days until the polar vortex.

Thomas shivered, pulling his blanket tighter. "Damn, it's getting cold." The pre-disaster effects were already noticeable.

He stumbled out of bed, started the generator, and flipped on the lights. The kitchen was finished – a simple hot plate on a counter.

"This apocalypse game is something else," he muttered, heating up some milk and eating breakfast with a can of luncheon meat. It was the first hot meal he'd had in days.

He opened the regional chat. It was surprisingly quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous days. A few desperate pleas for food and water were met with indifference. It was day four. Anyone still starving in the city wasn't trying hard enough.

Finished with breakfast, Thomas opened the Super Monopoly screen, anticipation bubbling in his chest. "Hopefully, it's real estate today. Those special event missions are brutal."

He'd received another 128 wealth points, bringing his total to 409.

"Over four hundred!" he thought with satisfaction. "Yesterday's special mission was because of the wrong invocation. Let's try this."

"Lord Guan, God of War and Wealth, bless me with real estate today!"

The dice rolled. Thomas watched intently. It landed on six. His eyes darted to the space six squares ahead.

His jaw dropped. "Holy…"