Steam curled up from the pot, carrying the faint scent of ginger and garlic into the small kitchen of Room 1502. The counter was crowded with ingredients—half-chopped scallions, a few precious slices of marbled beef, and a jar of chili paste whose glass was smudged from too much careful handling. In the corner, a pot of rice was ticking softly as it steamed, the sound almost too domestic for the world outside these walls.
Lu Ningfei pushed back a strand of his long black hair that had slipped forward, the ends brushing against the collar of his loose sweater. His hair was silk-dark, falling down his back in a smooth line, a stubborn indulgence he had never been willing to give up even when everything else in life had collapsed. His face, reflected faintly in the glass of the cabinet door, was sharp but delicate, his lips faintly pink from the steam.
As he stirred the soup, his thoughts slipped, uninvited, toward Shen Zhiling.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with that clean-cut, severe handsomeness that seemed carved by the military itself—Shen Zhiling had been a constant presence these past two weeks in the building. He rarely spoke unnecessarily, and yet when he did, people listened. His voice was deep, steady. His posture straight even when resting. The kind of man who could make anyone feel a little safer just by standing in the same room.
Lu Ningfei could still picture him from yesterday—rolling up his sleeves to repair the building's makeshift generator, his forearms taut under sun-browned skin, his brow furrowed in concentration. Something in the memory made Ningfei's ears grow warm. He shook his head sharply, almost splashing the soup.
Ridiculous.
A relationship? Now? In this… world? He almost laughed. His luck had never been particularly good—though, to be fair, it had been improving lately. But improving luck didn't mean jumping into things without thought. Especially not things as unpredictable as… feelings. Especially when survival itself was not guaranteed tomorrow.
He sighed, leaning against the counter for a moment, watching the steam rise from the soup. Outside the kitchen window, the sky was a deep, strange shade—daylight, but dimmed, filtered through a haze that had been growing for days now. They all knew something was wrong. They had known it for weeks.
The door to Si Qin's room banged open.
Lu Ningfei turned, startled, as his step-brother all but stumbled into the hallway. Si Qin was pale, his sharp eyes darting wildly, his sarcastic mouth for once too tense to shape words right away.
"What's with you?" Ningfei asked, setting the ladle down.
Si Qin didn't answer immediately—just grabbed Ningfei's wrist with surprising force and yanked him toward the living room. "You need to look outside," he said finally, his voice lower than usual, almost unsteady.
Ningfei frowned, but allowed himself to be pulled.
The living room window was wide enough to give a clear view of the street below and the sky above. And what Ningfei saw made him go still.
The moon hung in the sky, huge and low, like it had been drawn closer to the earth. Its silver glow was gone. In its place was a deep, burning red—so red it looked like it might drip. The air around it seemed to waver, like heat haze.
For days, the moon had been changing slowly—turning from silver to pale orange, from orange to rust. Now it was blood.
And on the streets below…
They were out there.
Figures moved sluggishly at first, then faster, jerking, staggering. Their movements were wrong, too sharp in places and too limp in others, as if their bodies no longer obeyed human rules. Their clothes were torn, their skin bruised or pale or outright rotting. Even from this height, Ningfei could hear the faint, distant sound of something between a groan and a snarl.
His hand tightened against the cold glass of the window.
"The apocalypse," Si Qin said, almost too casually, though his voice had a tremor. "Guess the rumors weren't rumors after all."
Ningfei didn't answer. His chest felt strangely tight—not quite fear, not quite disbelief, but something heavier.
He'd heard about strange incidents—violent attacks, entire blocks being quarantined, people vanishing. They had all pretended it was temporary. Pretended they could hide in their well-fortified apartment building, live off supplies, keep things normal.
Normal was gone.
Behind him, the pot on the stove gave a soft, innocent hiss, as if mocking the sudden weight in the room.
Si Qin glanced toward the kitchen. "You were cooking?"
Ningfei gave a short nod.
"Guess we better enjoy it. Might be our last proper meal for a while." Si Qin's voice was laced with his usual sarcasm now, but Ningfei knew him well enough to hear the edge of fear beneath it.
Still, the younger man straightened, forcing calm into his posture. "Close the curtains," he said. "No need to give them a show."
Si Qin hesitated. "You're not… scared?"
"I'm not stupid enough to waste energy on panic," Ningfei replied, and there was a coldness in his tone that made Si Qin's mouth snap shut. He remembered, perhaps, why he had never liked being on the wrong side of his step-brother's temper.
They shut the curtains together, sealing the red light out of the room. But Ningfei could still feel it, like the moon's glare had etched itself into his eyes.
The air inside the apartment suddenly seemed heavier, the walls closer. He thought of the neighbors—families who had been here since before the crisis, rich enough to buy into a building like this, now reduced to rationing food and sharing batteries. He thought of Shen Zhiling, somewhere upstairs or maybe out on the balcony with his binoculars, scanning the streets the way soldiers scan enemy lines.
For a brief, irrational moment, Ningfei wished Shen Zhiling was here, in this room, standing beside him. He imagined the man's voice—steady, sure—telling him what needed to be done.
But Shen Zhiling wasn't here.
And Ningfei… wasn't sure if that was disappointment or relief.
Dinner was quiet.
Si Qin sat opposite Ningfei at the small dining table, shoveling food into his mouth with more force than elegance. He kept glancing toward the curtained window, as if he could still see the red moon bleeding through the fabric.
"You think they can get in?" Si Qin asked suddenly.
Ningfei didn't look up from his bowl. "Not unless someone lets them."
"That's not funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
They ate in silence for a while longer. Outside, a distant crash echoed, followed by a scream that cut off far too quickly.
Si Qin's chopsticks froze mid-air. Ningfei didn't stop eating.
Later that night, Ningfei sat alone in his room, the dim light casting soft shadows on the floor. His hair spilled over his shoulder as he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, staring at the unlit screen of a dead phone.
In the hallway, footsteps passed—steady, measured. Military steps.
His heart skipped once before he could stop it.
Shen Zhiling's voice came through the thin door, speaking to someone else: "Secure the west stairwell. I'll check the roof."
Ningfei closed his eyes for a moment, listening until the footsteps faded.
The red moon might have brought hell to the earth, but in the strange quiet after its rise, he realized something:
It wasn't just fear keeping him awake tonight.
It was the thought of a tall, broad-shouldered man walking into danger without hesitation—and the unfamiliar, dangerous pull that thought stirred inside him.
.
Shen Zhiling stood in the dim stairwell, one gloved hand resting on the rail as his eyes swept the landing below. The emergency light flickered in a rhythm that made the shadows dance along the peeling walls. Somewhere far beneath them, a hollow metallic bang echoed — the sound of something hitting the lower security door.
He'd heard worse sounds in his years in the military. He'd also learned to trust the silence between them even less.
Still, his thoughts kept straying upward.
Room 1502.
Lu Ningfei.
Zhiling exhaled through his nose, pulling his mind back to the task. The first rule of survival was control — control of the perimeter, control of the people, control of yourself. He couldn't check on Ningfei yet, not when the building's outer defenses weren't fully secured. If the stairwells fell, every room number in this place would stop mattering.
Footsteps approached. They were unhurried, with a faint dragging quality that meant the person wasn't here for a fight.
Shen Zhiwei emerged from the shadows, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, hair slightly mussed as if he'd just rolled out of bed. He was as tall as his brother, but his frame carried an ease that Zhiling's didn't — the ease of someone who knew his strength and didn't feel the need to prove it.
"You're still here," Zhiwei said, glancing at the reinforced stairwell door Zhiling had been checking. "Was kind of hoping you'd already gone up."
Zhiling straightened, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Why?"
Zhiwei gave a half-smirk, the kind he used to get out of trouble when they were younger. "Because you're wasting time down here when you could be checking on 1502."
Zhiling's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened. "My job is to keep everyone safe, not one person."
"Sure," Zhiwei drawled, leaning against the wall. "But last I checked, 'everyone' includes that long-haired beauty you've been pretending not to notice."
Zhiling turned away to inspect the door's hinges. "Focus."
"Fine, fine," Zhiwei said, shrugging. "Then let me go. I'll swing by 1502, make sure they're alive, maybe even bring them down here if things get bad. You can finish playing soldier."
Zhiling turned back, the movement sharp. "No."
Zhiwei blinked. "No? You think I can't handle myself?"
"I think," Zhiling said evenly, "that I can't let my younger brother walk into unknown danger when the situation outside is deteriorating by the hour."
For a moment, their eyes locked — identical in shape and shade, but carrying entirely different weight. Zhiwei's were bright, restless, edged with mischief even now. Zhiling's were steady and unyielding, the kind of eyes that had stared down battlefields and didn't flinch.
"Unknown danger?" Zhiwei echoed, tilting his head. "Come on, ge. You've seen me handle worse. Besides…" His grin turned sly. "You know I've got a good reason to check that room."
Zhiling's brow furrowed, though the truth was he'd already guessed. "Si Qin."
Zhiwei gave a little shrug, not denying it. "Guy's got a sharp tongue. I like that in a man."
Zhiling's patience was thin tonight, and not just because of Zhiwei's nonsense. "This is not the time to chase your distractions."
Zhiwei's voice softened, just a fraction. "And you're telling me it's the time to ignore yours?"
The words landed heavier than they should have. Zhiling's fingers curled into a fist at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly. He didn't answer, because the truth — the image of Lu Ningfei standing at a window, pale in the red glow of the moon — was one he had no defense against.
"I'll secure the west stairwell," Zhiling said finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Then I'll check on them myself. You stay here. If anyone panics, you make sure they stay inside. No one opens a door without my order."
Zhiwei pushed off the wall, a flicker of frustration in his gaze. "You know you're impossible, right?"
Zhiling gave a faint nod. "Better impossible than reckless."