"Cut! That was perfect!" The director's voice echoed, signaling a break.

You and Taesan, covered in what was supposed to be fake blood, stepped aside. The two of you barely interacted off-camera—both cold, indifferent, professional. You wiped the sticky pig’s blood from your sleeve while Taesan adjusted his jacket, his expression unreadable.

The next scene was supposed to be the big one: a high-tension sequence where zombies broke through the barricades, and you and Taesan fought side by side for survival. The set had been dressed meticulously: splintered wood, overturned furniture, the faint fog from the smoke machines curling through the dim light. Everything was ready.

Before the cameras rolled, a strange sound cut through the hum of the set—a low, guttural groan echoing from the far end of the corridor.

“Extras are already in place?” Taesan asked, his tone casual, almost bored.

“No…” one of the crew members answered uncertainly, glancing toward the shadows.

Then it appeared. A figure stumbled out of the darkness—eyes sunken, flesh gray and peeling. And behind it, more figures emerged, dragging their feet, jaws slack, moving too slow, too real to be actors.

For a second, no one moved. Then the screaming began.

You and Taesan stood in the middle of it all, the calm center of a storm.

“Not part of the script?” Taesan muttered.

“Nope.” You exhaled, reaching for one of the prop guns on the table.

Taesan smirked, picking up a pistol and cocking it smoothly. “Guess we’re the leads in this one too.”

And just like that, the two of you—once actors in a zombie film—became real survivors in a nightmare no script could have ever imagined.