The New York summer sun was already peeking through the cracks in the blinds, painting Thiago's small college dorm room with golden hues and dust suspended in the muggy air. The sluggish air conditioning struggled to maintain a bearable temperature, but the promise of another ordinary day, vibrant with the energy of a metropolis that never sleeps, collapsed on him like a crumbling building, crushing every fiber of his being. Thiago woke with a violent jolt, not from a dream, but from a searing pain that seemed to rip his head apart, radiating to every nerve, every muscle, every bone in his body. It wasn't an ordinary physical pain, like a migraine or a pulled muscle from a heavy workout; it was a flood of images, sounds, and sensations that hit him like a tsunami of memories, a torrent of twenty years of hell compressed into a single, excruciating instant.
Flashes of despair blinded him: the sickly, metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with the nauseating stench of death and decay, an odor that would never leave him. Screams of terror, so real they seemed to echo off the walls of his room, mingled with the guttural, drawn-out growls of creatures he knew all too well. The distorted silhouettes of staggering beings, their movements uncoordinated but terrifying, filled his vision. It was them. The infected. The zombies. But not just any ordinary zombies. There was a strange, almost mesmerizing glow, and sometimes, a crystal embedded in the forehead of each one, pulsing with a light he knew to be indicative of power and evolution.
He threw himself out of bed, his body heavy and sweaty, his legs wobbly, his mind in chaos. The crumpled bedspread, the pillow bearing the imprint of his face, the smell of fabric softener—everything was normal, terribly normal. But the trembling hand that reached out, seeking support on the nightstand, was young, smooth, unscarred. The palm was soft, a stark contrast to the memory of the same hand, now calloused, covered in calluses and old cuts, firmly gripped around a twisted iron bar or the cold butt of a makeshift weapon, stained with blood and dirt.
"No... it can't be..." he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper that was lost in the hum of the air conditioning. His eyes swept the room: the faded poster of a rock band on the wall, the stack of IT books on the desk, the laptop open with a screen of code he barely remembered writing. Everything there was a ghost of a life he had forgotten, but now suffocating him with its normalcy.
He remembered an entire life. Twenty years. Twenty years of hell. Twenty years of relentless survival. The memory of every misstep, every decision that kept him alive, every loss that shattered him. He remembered brutal battles, where the sound of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder mingled with the sweet, nauseating scent of decaying flesh. Irreparable losses, the faces of friends and loved ones transformed into monsters or painful memories. Desperate flight through ruined cities, under gray, rainy skies, where every shadow could hide a threat.
He remembered being the last. The crushing loneliness of a world dominated by darkness and the undead, each with their own strange crystals. He remembered the terrible glow of the evolved crystals: theWhiteof the newly infected, who were barely crawling, but who quickly becomePale Greenand thenMoss Greenas they feed, gaining disturbing speed and strength. He saw the horror of theGreenish Yellow, with his newfound aggressiveness, and theBurnt Yellow, pulsing with sinister energy. TheMatte Orangewas a sign of brute force, and theOrange Red, of imminent danger, a more cunning and faster predator. TheBlood Redwas the color of irrational fury, creatures that moved with terrifying speed, almost like runners. He shuddered as he remembered theDark Purple, which heralded the beginning of special powers, zombies that could spit acid or emit shock waves. TheElectric Blue, which radiated a powerful energy, was the color of zombies who could manipulate the environment, perhaps even with rudimentary telekinesis. And theSparkling Black...ah, the Shimmering Black. This was the pinnacle, the nearly unstoppable threat, the crystal that emitted a visible energy field, the color of his own death. He knew these zombies evolved by devouring human brains, becoming increasingly lethal. And he knew that the crystals they carried, once extracted, could be used by humans to enhance strength and gain superhuman powers. A dark arms race he could now influence.
And then, the end. The excruciating pain of death, the last breath, the darkness.
And now, here he was. Back. In his dorm room, the alarm clock blaring 7:00 a.m. on an ordinary summer Tuesday. The calendar on the wall, with its iconic image of the Empire State Building, showed the date... and it was exactly one week ago. One week before it all began. One week before the meteor streaked across the sky, before the global rain, before the toxic haze. BeforePlague that devastated the land.
His mind, accustomed to the binary logic of programming, tried to process the impossible. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't a hallucination. It was real. Every invisible scar on his soul, every loss, every moment of terror, was there, etched into his consciousness like a corrupted but functional memory chip. And with this avalanche of memories came something else. An interface. Not a visible screen, but a presence in his mind, a system.
He thought of the word "System," and a voice, soundless but clear as a crystal thought, echoed in his mind.Welcome, Thiago. Time is a cycle. You have been chosen.
Thiago recoiled, stumbling on the carpet and falling to his knees. Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the tears he hadn't even realized were falling. A system. He remembered. In his final days, during the 20 years of hell, he had heard whispers, legends about a "System" that a lucky few seemed to possess. He never believed it. He thought it was delusional, the desperate hope of broken minds. But now... now he was one of those "lucky" ones.
He thought of "Status," and a translucent window formed in his mind's eye, displaying the numbers he already knew, but which now made terrifying sense:
Basic Information: Name: Thiago. Age: 21 (a guess, but he felt 41). Location: New York, USA (Summer). Recent Past: College student, studying IT. Current Context: Reborn with memories of 20 years of apocalypse.
Attributes (Base / Future Experience Bonus): Strength: 4 / 3. Dexterity: 5 / 3. Constitution (Endurance): 5 / 3. Intelligence: 5 / 3. Wisdom (Perception and Intuition): 5 / 3. Charisma (Leadership): 5 / 3. Personal Charisma: 2 / 3 (Antisocial). Mana: 0 / 0 (Empty, but with potential).
Skills: Information Technology (IT). Notions of Urban Survival.
The initial shock gave way to a wave of icy panic, quickly replaced by steely determination. He had one week. One week to change everything. One week to save not only himself, but perhaps... perhaps humanity. The memories were a burden, but also a weapon. He knew what was coming. He knew how the zombies evolved, the danger of the crystals, the Mysterious Entity that would emerge with its colored beams of light to negotiate. And he knew about his own System, a secret that, if revealed, would mean his death.
Still on his knees, his head throbbing, Thiago looked at the calendar on the wall. Seven days. That was all he had. The world was about to end, but this time, he wouldn't be caught off guard. This time, he would fight.