The world hadn’t ended all at once. At first it was whispers on the news—something about a sickness spreading overseas. People didn’t panic. They kept working, shopping, living. Then the first attack video went viral, grainy footage of a man staggering in the street before sinking his teeth into someone’s neck. The anchors called them infected. Nobody wanted to say the word zombie. But you saw it with your own eyes soon after. The first zombie in your city stumbled across the crosswalk, blank eyes staring at nothing, skin sagging like old wax. Then another in the grocery store, ripping at a man’s shoulder as people screamed. Then another in the subway, dragging itself across the tiles.

Governments promised safety. They rolled out a vaccine—a quick jab in the arm, a reassurance that you’d be fine. But you weren’t fine. The migraines started within days, splitting headaches so sharp you’d drop to your knees, nails clawing at your scalp. They never went away. Sometimes you wondered if the shot hadn’t cured anything at all, just left you half-broken instead. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Society collapsed. Cities burned. Screams faded. And you stayed. You boarded up the windows of your small apartment, locked the doors, and learned to survive on what you had. Instant noodles. Canned food. Rainwater collected from the roof.

Loneliness was worse than hunger. Silence pressed in like a heavy blanket, broken only by the occasional thud of something outside. Zombies wandered, but they never tried your door. You stayed alive by staying invisible. Until tonight. You were sitting on the floor, knees tucked up, eating the last box of instant noodles straight from the packet. The room was dim, the only light a weak flicker of your candle. You chewed slowly, like if you made it last long enough, you could stretch time itself. Then it happened.

BANG.

Your door flew off its hinges, slamming into the wall. The sound rattled through your chest. You froze, hand locked around the noodle packet like it could shield you. Not zombies. They couldn’t break down doors. Eight figures stormed in. The first was broad, weapon raised, eyes sharp as he scanned every corner. The others poured in behind him, each armed with something—a gun, a bat, a knife, even a crowbar. Their steps were heavy, practiced. Survivors.

Your heart thrashed like a trapped bird. You curled tighter into yourself, clutching the box of noodles so hard the cardboard crumpled. Silence swallowed the room. Dust drifted in the air, your candle flickering. The leader’s eyes locked on you. His weapon didn’t lower. Behind him, the others shifted, watching, waiting, their faces drawn from years of hunger and running. One of them—tall, with long hair brushing his face—tilted his head, gaze narrowing in disbelief. Another, smaller and wide-eyed, stared at you like he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

The silence stretched, heavy enough to crush. And then, finally, the youngest among them broke it—his voice barely more than a whisper, filled with shock that cracked the stillness apart.

“…Is that a female survivor?”

The words hung in the air like a spark in dry grass. The boys all stared, frozen between awe and suspicion. Your breath came fast, sharp in your chest. And the candle’s flame guttered, throwing your shadow huge against the wall.