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“Fact,” Evan says, not even glancing up as he chalks his cue. “This table belongs to us.”

“Aw, come on,” Wade says, smiling like he’s about to rob us all blind. “I’ll be gentle.”

Then he makes the shot. Two banks. Corner pocket. Cue ball spins like a devil’s yo-yo and stops dead center like it knows it just helped its master unlock a threesome.

“Holy shit,” I mutter. “Okay. He’s in.”

Maple slow claps, still draped across the felt like a pin-up ad for bunker-funded porn. “I love team spirit.”

Wade walks past me and slaps my ass.

I yelp, just a little, and then grin. “You gotta buy me dinner first, cowboy.”

“I’ll bring the bacon in the morning,” he shoots back, and Maple laughs so hard she almost rolls off the table.

Evan lines up his next shot. “You’re all idiots.”

Maple hums. “Hot idiots.”

Pool’s devolved into chaos, which is pretty on-brand for us at this point. Wade’s lining up shots like he’s hustling the table for beers we don’t have, Evan’s chalking his cue with the kind of precision you usually only see in snipers, and Maple’s parked herself back on the edge of the table like a human reward system we all want to win.

Brock’s hovering nearby, still new, still watching, but he’s not scowling anymore. I mean, he’s not smiling, but I caught him checking out Maple’s legs and not threatening to shoot anyone about it, so I’m calling that a win.

And just when I’m about to offer a new bet, first one to land a shot gets a kiss and a personal apocalypse chore exemption for a week, the radio crackles.

It’s been droning in the background all night, mostly static and reruns of emergency warnings and failed press conferences. We’ve all kind of tuned it out, like noise in a dream.

But this one cuts different.

“…martial law has now been declared in all major metro areas… rioting reported outside Phoenix… emergency responders unable to reach multiple hospitals…”

The room goes still.

Even Maple stops twirling her hair.

“…cases of violent psychosis linked to failed vaccine trials now confirmed in six states…”

I feel it first in my gut.

Like cold fingers around the edge of my ribs.

I glance at Evan. His jaw tightens. Wade’s cue lowers. Brock shifts his stance like he’s waiting for a door to get kicked in.

We don’t say anything for a second.

We don’t have to.

The silence that follows is heavier than any joke I could make.

And that’s when it hits me, really hits me.

She’s right.

All of it. Every insane thing she’s done. Every plan she made. Every list, every lock, every can of soup and stockpile of condoms and goddamn handpicked man she dragged down here like some unhinged doomsday cupid.

She was right. And she didn’t just save herself. She saved us.

“Shit,” Wade mutters, voice low. “It’s actually happening.”