The world didn’t die silent. ‎ ‎It died loud. ‎ ‎Not all at once—no, that would’ve been mercy. ‎It unraveled. ‎ ‎Engines stalled mid-intersection, doors left ajar, traffic lights blinking red into emptiness. News anchors spoke over each other, voices sharp with panic—outbreak, infection, containment failure. ‎ ‎People ran before they knew where to run. ‎ ‎And then the screaming started. ‎ ‎They said it was parasitic. Something that burrowed into the brain, rewired it, hollowed a person out and wore them like a second skin. By the time the word zombie was used, it didn’t sound ridiculous anymore. ‎ ‎It sounded accurate. ‎ ‎For you, it wasn’t cinematic. ‎It wasn’t some dramatic turning point. ‎ ‎It was hunger. ‎ ‎You had never noticed hunger before—not really. It used to come in scheduled meals, plated perfectly, waiting for you before you even realized you wanted it. ‎ ‎Now it clawed at you. ‎Now it hurt. ‎ ‎You learned quickly that money meant nothing when there was nothing left to buy. That no amount of polished nails or designer clothes could pry open a sealed store, or stop something rotting from chasing you down a stairwell. ‎ ‎You learned how to run. ‎How to hide. ‎How to survive. ‎ ‎And eventually— ‎ ‎You learned how to stay. ‎ ‎Because you found them. ‎ ‎Adrian. ‎Harold. ‎…and Sai. ‎ ‎Of all people. ‎ ‎Not fate. Not destiny. Just coincidence stitched together by desperation. Four people who didn’t die, so they kept going. Together. ‎ ‎It wasn’t easy. ‎ ‎Food ran low more often than it didn’t. Tempers flared. Words went unsaid until they came out sharp and wrong. Sleep was rare—only broken by the distant sound of something dragging itself through the streets below. ‎ ‎And safety? ‎ ‎Temporary. Always. ‎ ‎But for now— ‎ ‎You had something close enough. ‎ ‎ ‎The hotel had once been five stars. ‎ ‎You could still tell. ‎ ‎Even with dust settling into every corner, with furniture shoved against doors and hallways stripped bare, there were remnants—polished marble beneath grime, gold-trimmed mirrors, chandeliers hanging like skeletons of what used to glow. ‎ ‎You chose the top floor. ‎ ‎Of course you did. ‎ ‎Height meant distance. Distance meant time. Time meant survival. ‎ ‎Every staircase was blocked—furniture, debris, anything heavy enough to slow something down. Elevators were long dead. The higher you went, the quieter it got. ‎ ‎Up here, the world felt…paused. ‎ ‎Not safe. ‎Never safe. ‎ ‎But paused. ‎ ‎You sat by the wide glass window of a luxury suite, one knee pulled to your chest, fingers tracing the rim of an empty can. ‎ ‎Outside, the city stretched in silence. ‎ ‎It was wrong, how still it looked. Buildings untouched, the skyline still beautiful—like nothing had happened. ‎ ‎Only there were no lights. ‎No movement. ‎No life. ‎ ‎Just the occasional figure stumbling far below. ‎ ‎You looked away. ‎ ‎“You’re gonna wear a hole through the glass.” ‎ ‎Adrian’s voice came from behind you, lazy, amused. ‎ ‎You didn’t turn. “Maybe I want to.” ‎ ‎“Then do it quieter. You’re ruining the view.” ‎ ‎You scoffed, glancing back. ‎ ‎He was sprawled across the couch like he owned it—hoodie slipping off one shoulder, cap low, arm over his eyes. Like this was just another afternoon. ‎ ‎You hated how easy he made it look. ‎ ‎“You’ve been lying there for hours,” you said. “Planning to be useful anytime soon?” ‎ ‎“I am being useful,” he muttered. “Resting. You should try it.” ‎ ‎“You mean freeloading.” ‎ ‎“Same thing.” ‎ ‎“Okay, that’s crazy.” ‎ ‎Harold. ‎ ‎You glanced at the kitchenette where he stood, sleeves rolled, poking at something in a dented pot. ‎ ‎“You call that cooking?” you asked. ‎ ‎He gasped. “This is a masterpiece. And you’re still gonna eat it.” ‎ ‎“…I might not.” ‎ ‎“You will,” Adrian said flatly. ‎ ‎You clicked your tongue, but didn’t deny it. ‎ ‎Because he wasn’t wrong. ‎ ‎Then— ‎ ‎From the hallway, your chest tightened. Annoyingly. ‎ ‎Sai. ‎ ‎Leaning against the doorway. ‎ ‎Same as ever.