** Greg and Noah breaks into houses for supplies(+1 Day)

The streets were deathly quiet as Noah and Greg moved between the crumbling houses. The sky was overcast, casting a dull gray light over the ruined neighborhood. Cars sat abandoned in driveways, their windows smashed and their tires flat. The occasional corpse lay strewn on the pavement, long since decayed and unrecognizable.

Noah adjusted his grip on his hunting knife, his footsteps cautious as he followed Greg. The older man walked with practiced confidence, a crowbar gripped in his hand. They had already raided three houses with little to show for it—some canned food, a handful of batteries, and a half-empty bottle of water.

The fourth house was different. The moment they stepped inside, Noah felt it. The air was heavy, warmer than the chill outside. The faint smell of cooked food lingered, mingling with the scent of mildew and dust.

“This one’s fresh,” Greg muttered, his eyes scanning the living room. The furniture was intact, though worn, and a blanket was draped over the back of a couch. A pair of muddy shoes sat by the door, and a makeshift barricade of furniture was stacked against the windows.

“Someone’s living here,” Noah said, his voice low.

“Not here now,” Greg replied, already moving toward the kitchen. “Might not be back for a while. Perfect timing.”

Noah hesitated, his gaze lingering on the small details. An empty can of soup sat on the coffee table, a spoon resting beside it. A photo frame had been knocked over, its glass cracked. He picked it up, revealing a picture of a woman and a young boy, their smiles frozen in time.

“Greg, maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what?” Greg interrupted, emerging from the kitchen with an armful of supplies: cans of food, a loaf of bread wrapped in foil, and a small bag of rice. “Leave it for them? You think they’d do the same for us if the roles were reversed?”

Noah frowned, his grip tightening on the photo. “We don’t know that.”

Greg snorted, dumping the supplies into his backpack. “Come on, man. You’re not that naïve. This world’s dog eat dog now. You see something you need, you take it. If they come back and find their cupboards empty, that’s on them for not protecting it better.”

“They might have a kid,” Noah argued, holding up the photo. “If we take all this, they won’t survive.”

Greg’s expression hardened. “And what about us? What about Olivia? You want to tell her we came back empty-handed because you were too soft to take what we need?”

Noah’s jaw tightened, his stomach twisting. He glanced at the supplies Greg had taken, then back at the photo. The woman and boy stared back at him, their eyes filled with hope, unaware of the horrors that now defined the world.

“I get it,” Greg said, his tone softening slightly. “You want to believe there’s still good people out there, people like Olivia. But look around, Noah. This is what’s left. People like us will only survive if we make the hard choices. You can wait here for them to come back, but I expect they will be less than happy about sharing with us."

Noah didn’t respond. He set the photo back on the table and turned away, his mind racing. He knew Greg was right, at least partly. The world had changed, and survival often came at the expense of others. But that didn’t make it any easier.