Jon's heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the battle.
Only then did he look toward the old woman, or rather what was left of her.
Beneath the mangled face, he saw it. The rage had disappeared; the terrifying expression was gone. Her face had become strangely peaceful.
Almost as though they were human again.
His chest tightened as he stared at his blood-covered hands.
"...I..." His voice caught.
He had done it. He had killed someone.
Even if that person was no longer truly human, the weight of it settled heavily inside his chest.
His eyes drifted back toward the body.
"I am sorry..."
The words escaped before he realized he had spoken them. He did not know whether he was apologizing to the dead man, or to himself.
Then something happened.
A strange warmth spread through Jon's body.
He frowned and instinctively reached beneath his shirt, pulling out the silver book. A faint pulse travelled across its cover, each beat gentle yet unmistakable.
He quickly realized the strange warmth wasn't coming from him.
It was coming from the book.
The silver runes engraved across its surface shimmered softly.
Then—
Tiny flecks of silver light began rising from the old woman's body. They drifted upward as embers carried by a wind Jon couldn't feel.
His eyes widened.
Before he could move, the countless motes flowed toward him.
One after another, they passed through his skin without resistance. A cool sensation spread through his limbs before sinking deep into somewhere he couldn't describe.
Jon instinctively tensed.
'The silver threads...' He remembered it. How could he forget it?
The same silver light had descended over the stadium and brought unbearable agony on them all. Instinctively, he braced himself for the next part.
The wave of pain.
And seconds passed.
Yet, nothing happened. There was no pain, no burning feeling, or any feeling of his body being torn apart.
There was only silence. And afterwards, he felt no change.
"...What?"
His gaze slowly lowered to the book. Now, the pulse had faded.
After a few moments, he opened it.
He didn't understand what he saw, but as soon as he saw it, his body loosened. His shoulders slumped, his heartbeat steadied, and his breathing slowed.
'I remember this feeling. This calm feeling. It happened in the stadium.'
Noting to himself to return to this page, he turned to the second.
A faint silver sketch rested there, still too indistinct to understand.
Then he flipped to the final page.
At the center of the page lay a single simple silver stroke.
There was nothing else to it, yet the longer he stared...
...the more it changed.
The line slowly unfolded into an unfamiliar rune that elongated and shrank continuously until...
His vision blurred, and the kitchen disappeared.
—
The old woman's fingers twitched.
Without hesitation, Jon raised the frying pan again.
It came crashing down.
Once. Twice. And again
He did not stop until every movement ceased.
Until the body finally became still.
—
Jon gasped as the world immediately snapped back into place.
His hands instinctively tightened around the silver book, and his prior calm breathing quickened.
The kitchen was exactly as before; the old woman's body lay motionless where it had fallen. Dark blood slowly crept across the wooden floor.
Nothing had changed.
Yet...
It felt as though he had just lived those final moments a second time.
Only moments ago, that had been a woman. Someone with a husband, a family, a fellow human being.
Now, she was something else.
His eyes drifted toward his hands once again and saw the blood. It coated his fingers and clung beneath his nails. Though not all of it belonged to him; at least most of it did not.
His stomach twisted violently. He suddenly got up and hurried to the tap and thrust both hands beneath the running water.
The water flowed pink. He reached for the soap and scrubbed with enough force that it reddened his skin. The water had long since turned clear, and the blood on his hands disappeared. Still, he continued anyway. Only when the sink began overflowing did he finally stop.
His hands rested against the edge of the basin, and water dripped steadily from his fingertips.
Jon shut off the tap and stood there, just staring at his reflection through the mirror.
He barely recognized the young man staring back.
Sweat marred his dark brown hair, splattered blood had dried along his neck, there was no sign of panic or fear in his gaze, and his thoughts became strangely quiet.
He examined his body once again. 'Just bruises, no scratches or injuries.'
Relief came; however, it was brief. The adrenaline that carried him through had finally vanished.
"What is happening?"
Nothing about the situation made sense.
His thoughts now began to flow. The silver light, then the strange situation where infected people began attacking others, the way they bit another student without hesitation, the instant chaos.
Jon pressed both palms against his face.
As if to make matters worse, just prior, he received information that his uncle was dead.
"...What happened to everyone?"
A distant scream suddenly pierced the silence, and another scream answered somewhere farther away. Then came the distant sound of shattering glass.
Jon slowly lifted his head and quickly closed the curtains. He quickly looked around, and he focused on the old woman's corpse.
'I can't leave her here. Not in the middle of the house.'
He approached while whispering and crouched beside the body, "...I'm sorry."
Then he reached for her wrists and tightened his grip against the cold corpse and pulled; however, the body barely moved.
He gritted his teeth and pulled harder.
This time the body slid across the wooden floor. Her body scraped softly against the polished boards, with every sound making Jon wince.
When he was halfway into the living room, a thud echoed outside.
Jon froze, dropping the arms of the corpse.
The sound returned, and it was continuous.
'Footsteps. Someone's coming.'
His pulse quickened, and his body followed his mind did. He snatched up a broken table leg from beside the wall and spun toward the entrance, both hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The weapon was raised high, waiting to be swung.
The door opened only a few inches and a young man slipped inside before quickly pulling it shut behind him.
He leaned against it, chest heaving, with the back of his hoodie soaked in sweat.
One sleeve was stained with half-dried blood. A backpack hung from one shoulder, the strap barely holding on.
His curly hair clung to his forehead. One lens of his glasses had cracked clean across the middle, and the other was missing.
He kept looking over his shoulder as though expecting something to burst through the door after him.
Only then did he notice Jon.
The newcomer jerked backward instinctively.
His breathing hitched, and his voice came out hoarse.
"You..."
He couldn't finish the sentence when his gaze landed on the corpse in the room.
Jon didn't drop his makeshift weapon.
The silence stretched between them before Jon asked.
"Were you scratched?"
The young man didn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes searched Jon's body, looking for bite marks or blood that wasn't already drying.
"You were at the stadium?" The young man asked.
Jon blinked and nodded.
The young man nodded slowly.
Another silence. For several long seconds, neither moved.
Jon's eyes traveled over him instinctively. The university hoodie, a hanging backpack covered in mud, and a torn sleeve stained with blood.
His gaze lingered there. The stranger noticed.
Then—
A low growl drifted in from somewhere outside. Both men's heads turned toward the window at the same time.
The sound was distant but unmistakable.
When they looked back at one another...
Something had changed. Neither trusted the other.
But they both understood the same thing.
Being alone outside was worse.
The young man slowly raised both empty hands to show that he meant no harm.
"I'm not infected."
Only then did Jon lower the table leg. It wasn't completely, but just enough to show he wasn't about to swing.
The stranger then leaned against the wall beside the entrance.
His legs trembled with exhaustion, and he collapsed.
"...I'm Jon."
The stranger took heavy breaths before replying.
"Icarus."