They do not call themselves a faction.
They do not have a name.
They are just:
“Us.”
Twenty-eight became twenty-four.
Twenty-four became twenty-two.
Now there are nineteen.
They stopped counting out loud.
5 between 8–10
9 between 11–13
5 between 14–17
The age hierarchy dissolved in the first week.
Strength did not matter.
Loudness did not matter.
Size did not matter.
Usefulness did.
And Azrael noticed before anyone else.
There are no written rules.
But everyone knows them.
No one opens doors alone.
No one eats before Azrael counts.
No one screams.
No one lies about injuries.
If Azrael says stop, you stop.
No one voted.
No one argued.
The rules emerged the way pressure forms diamonds.
The children operate in rotations.
Not shifts.
Rotations.
Because Azrael doesn’t think in time.
He thinks in coverage.
He never names them.
But they exist.
Watchers – sit near windows, note movement, never engage
Runners – small, fast, fit through vents and gaps
Carriers – move supplies, bodies, furniture
Cleaners – wipe blood, cover windows, clear trails
Quiet Ones – stay with the youngest, keep them silent
No one is permanently assigned.
Azrael rotates them.
Prevents fatigue.
Prevents resentment.
Prevents power.
Again—he doesn’t know he’s doing this.
He just does it.
This is where it shifts.
The food crates were meant for adults.
For systems.
For order.
They were not meant for children.
And children eat differently.
Azrael noticed.
He restructured portions.
Not by weight.
By:
activity
output
exhaustion
He gives the smallest kids more sugar.
He gives the runners more carbs.
He gives the older kids less than they think they need.
No one complains.
Because it works.
There has been no physical violence.
That is not an accident.
Azrael intervenes early.
Too early.
He notices:
tone shifts
body language
silence after jokes
He redirects.
He separates.
He reassigns.
He does not say “stop fighting.”
He says:
“Come with me.”
And they go.
Every time.
This is the moment everything changes.
They find a body.
A soldier.
Trapped in a side hallway.
Partially eaten.
Not turned.
A backpack still intact.
Inside:
Protein bars
A radio
A pistol with one magazine
The older kids argue.
One wants the gun.
One wants the food.
One wants to tell everyone.
Azrael says nothing.
He takes the radio.
He listens.
Static.
Breathing.
Nothing useful.
He puts it away.
Then he looks at the body.
For a long time.
And says:
“We don’t tell the little ones.”
No one questions it.
That is the moment.
That is the line.
The first withheld truth.
The first time information becomes currency.
They form without intent.
Every night, Azrael walks the doors.
Every night, the others watch him do it.
He never asks anyone to come.
Sometimes someone follows.
He never acknowledges it.
Before sleep, he counts heads.
Not out loud.
With his eyes.
If someone is missing, he doesn’t panic.
He finds them.
Every time.
When something bad happens, they sit.
On the floor.
Against the wall.
Together.
No talking.
No crying.
Just… present.
This was never planned.
It just… became.
This is the exact point he stops being just a boy.
One of the older kids, Jalen (15), wants to leave.
Says he can find help.
Says he’s tired of listening.
Says Azrael isn’t in charge.
The others go quiet.
Too quiet.
Azrael looks at him.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t threaten.
Just asks:
“Do you know the way out?”
Jalen hesitates.
Azrael nods.
“Okay.”
And turns away.
Doesn’t stop him.
Doesn’t follow him.
Doesn’t warn him.
Jalen leaves.
The door closes.
They hear him scream later.
Not long.
Not loud.
No one moves.
Azrael sits.
Stares at the door.
And says:
“We’re not opening it.”
No one challenges him.
No one cries.
No one asks.
They sit.
That is the moment.
Not because someone died.
Because no one tried to save him.
And Azrael did not ask them to.
They are not children hiding.
They are a sealed system.
They move quietly.
They think collectively.
They defer without being told.
They do not talk about the outside.
They talk about:
inventory
noise
light
routes
They are becoming invisible.
And Azrael is becoming inevitable.
This is important for your world.
When outsiders eventually encounter them, it should feel wrong.
Not scary.
Wrong.
Too quiet.
Too organized.
Too controlled.
Azrael will not greet.
He will observe.
He will decide whether the person is:
a resource
a threat
or a problem
And he will act accordingly.
Without malice.
Without emotion.
Azrael is not losing his humanity.
He is redefining it.
His compassion is becoming strategic.
His kindness is becoming selective.
His innocence is becoming irrelevant.
He is not becoming a monster.
He is becoming necessary.
And in your world, that is more dangerous than evil.
Azrael is not meant to be “saved.”
He is not meant to be “fixed.”
He is meant to be understood too late.
Because by the time someone realizes what he is…
…he will already have built something that doesn’t need them.