In the dimly lit room, only a small, high window was slightly ajar. A narrow beam of sunlight slipped through the crack, illuminating a small patch of the floor.
The smooth, gray tiles were drenched in blood—wide, dark pools covering most of the ground. The walls, the ceiling, every surface within sight, were splattered with streaks and smears of dried crimson, as if a storm of violence had raged through.
On a reclining chair in the center lay the naked body of a woman. Her limbs had been severed cleanly. In the middle of her chest and abdomen, a long, deep gash had been carved open with a sharp blade, revealing her hollowed-out insides.
Around her neck was a deep purple ligature mark—she had been strangled to death. Her wide, staring eyes were frozen in pure disbelief, as if even in her final moments, she couldn't accept that this was how her life would end.
Beside the chair, furniture had been torn apart. Books and papers were scattered across the floor. In the center, a circle of ashes marked where a fire had burned itself out.
On either side of the fire pit stood two metal racks. On them, human body parts—cut into neat, uniform segments—were slowly roasting. Around them, scattered like trash, were fragments of white bone, teeth, and unidentifiable human tissue.
The scene before Brian was so grotesque, so inhuman, that even he—trained soldier, hardened survivor, man of iron nerves—froze in place.
Not from fear.
From horror.
Because this wasn't just murder.
It was cannibalism.
They had been eating people.
Slowly, Brian turned his gaze away from the nightmare inside the room, fighting back the nausea rising in his throat. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay composed. Then he redirected his attention to the two male corpses near the doorway.
He hadn't noticed before, but now, upon closer inspection, he saw that both had bullet wounds to the head—one in the forehead, the other in the temple.
He shone his flashlight on their hands. Beside one of the bodies lay a handgun—empty.
Then he turned the beam toward the walls behind them. One wall bore a large cross painted in blood. The other had a message scrawled in the same red ink:
"May God forgive our sins."
He switched off the flashlight. In silence, he replayed everything he'd seen. He combined it with the note he'd found earlier in the mall. He didn't need to guess what had happened.
Three people—likely local survivors—had found two outsiders entering the town. They killed one. The other was wounded. As they moved in for the kill, they awakened nearby infected. Forced to flee, they ran upstairs and barricaded themselves in this nail salon room.
They were safe… for now.
But trapped. Surrounded. No escape.
And then, perhaps consumed by guilt, or madness, or sheer despair, they chose to end it.
One shot the other. Then turned the gun on himself. Before dying, they painted the cross and wrote their confession—begging for forgiveness in death.
Whether they truly repented… that no one would ever know.
Brian tucked the flashlight away, picked up the door Elton had torn off, and rehung it, blocking the view of the room.
Then he walked to the front of the nail salon, closed the glass doors, and used the lock hanging nearby to secure it shut. No one else needed to see what was inside.
First Floor – Main Hall
When Brian returned to the ground floor, the convoy was already entering the mall's parking lot. Elton stood outside, waving them in.
"Captain, you're back!"
Hearing the door open, Elton turned. Seeing Brian, he gave a relieved greeting.
But then, remembering what he'd seen upstairs, his face paled again.
Brian looked at him with quiet understanding, gave his shoulder a firm pat, and said:
"Don't overthink it. In this world, things like this will happen. You'll have to get used to it."
"Y-yes, Captain."
Elton nodded stiffly, shook his head to clear it, and went back to guiding the vehicles.
Once the convoy was parked, Brian called over Wade, Kim, and Mike.
"Wade, line up the civilians at the entrance. Kim, Mike—you come with me."
"Yes, sir!"
Wade ran off to organize the civilians. Kim and Mike exchanged a glance, then followed Brian inside.
As they walked, Brian keyed his radio.
"Norman, what do you see up there?"
"…Zzz… Captain, I've been watching all afternoon. I've spotted movement—more than once. You were right. There are others here."
"Have you seen anyone heading toward the mall?"
"Huh?"
A pause. Then rustling. Norman's voice returned.
"I just checked. No one's coming this way. Captain, what's wrong?"
Brian didn't answer. He frowned, thinking fast. He checked his watch.
"Alright. Return now."
"Got it."
He ended the transmission. Stopped. Looked at Kim and Mike.
He knew they'd heard everything.
"You're right," he said. "There are other survivors in this town."
Both exchanged a glance, surprised. Mike opened his mouth, then hesitated.
"Speak," Brian urged. "What is it?"
"Well…" Mike stepped closer, lowering his voice. "On the way here, we found a woman unconscious in a house. She was alone. We couldn't just leave her to die… so we brought her with us. She's in the truck."
Brian's brow furrowed. His eyes flashed with warning.
"Don't do it again."
"Yes, sir!"
Both sighed in relief. They'd feared a harsh reprimand.
"Kim, find a high vantage point. Keep watch until Norman returns."
"Mike, take me to that woman."
Brian needed answers. An unknown element in his group was a risk. And right now, with hidden enemies, he couldn't afford mistakes.
The two nodded and split up.
Following Mike, Brian stepped into the parking lot. Elton and the drivers approached. One of them supported a weak, barely conscious woman.
"Captain, why are you—?"
Elton looked surprised to see him return.
"Her," Brian said, tilting his chin.
His eyes scanned the woman with piercing intensity, as if trying to see through her soul.
She wore old, dusty clothes, stained from crawling through debris. Pale, lips cracked, leaning on the soldier's shoulder—on the verge of collapse.
Under Brian's sharp gaze, the woman flinched.
"Hello," she whispered.
Brian gave a slight nod—his version of a greeting. He softened his tone.
"Ma'am, can we talk?"
"Yes."
She hesitated, but nodded, aware of their military uniforms.
"What's your name?"
"Cindy."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was wandering… I don't know how I got here. I passed out. If it weren't for you… I'd be dead."
Her voice trembled. She looked at Mike with gratitude.
"Do you have other companions?"
Cindy's expression stiffened. Then, with tear-filled eyes, she said:
"I did… but the infected scattered us. I don't know if they're still alive…"
Brian didn't react. His gaze was cold, deep, unreadable.
"Have you seen any other survivors in this town?"
Cindy swallowed. She hesitated.
"No… I haven't seen anyone."
Brian studied her in silence.
And he knew, with absolute certainty…
—You're lying.