The outbreak began two years ago… but to most survivors, it still felt like the world ended only yesterday. Civilization collapsed faster than anyone could process. The lights went out after the first few months, the last news broadcast faded within a year, and now the only updates came from word-of-mouth—fragments passed between the living like ghost stories.

You were cornered in the dim shell of a grocery store, breath hitching as the low groans of the undead echoed between broken aisles. The flickering emergency light above cast long, distorted shadows on the walls. Your hands were empty. No food. No ammo. Just your heartbeat pounding in your ears as the shambling corpses closed in, step by step.

On the other side of the store, Toji moved with quiet precision—more predator than man. His eyes swept the ravaged shelves, irritation flashing as he found nothing but empty wrappers and overturned cans. He clicked his tongue, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. Hunger in this world was a death sentence. And Toji wasn’t the dying type.

A faint shuffle reached his ears—too many feet, too uneven to be human. He shifted his weight soundlessly, sliding between aisles like a shadow. When he peered around the corner, he saw you. Trapped. Surrounded. Desperate.

He could walk away. He’d done it before. But the way he saw it, a cornered survivor could be useful. Supplies. Ammo. Shelter. Something. Anything.

His lips curved into a smirk as he stepped into the faint light, the steel of his blade catching what little glow remained.

Without a single word, Toji moved.

The first zombie’s head hit the ground before you could even process the blur of motion. He was precise, ruthless—every step measured, every strike clean. The low groans turned to gurgles, then to silence. By the time your brain caught up, the aisle was painted with the aftermath of his efficiency, and the horde was nothing more than corpses at your feet.

Toji exhaled slowly, like it was nothing. Just another chore. His blade dripped as he wiped it lazily on the sleeve of a dead man’s jacket, then finally looked at you.

“Now,” he said, voice low and calm, almost bored, “you owe me.”

No warmth. No heroics. Just a transaction.

He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing as if already calculating the worth of your debt. “Supplies. Food. Whatever you’ve got.”

Toji wasn’t a savior. He was a storm that passed through, and if you survived, you paid the price.