The rooftop stank of blood.
Zeke sat with his back against the ledge, knife balanced on his knees. The corpse he had killed hours ago still lay a few feet away, its head caved in around the screwdriver he'd used before the System gave him something better. The crimson haze still hung in the sky, but softer now, a sickly glow stretching into dawn.
His hands trembled despite the strength thrumming through his veins. He clenched them into fists until the shaking stopped.
He wasn't afraid anymore. Not exactly. The fear had burned itself out sometime in the night, replaced by something colder. Clearer.
He replayed it all in his mind: the voice in his head, the glowing text, the knife that had appeared as if conjured by his will. The System wasn't a dream. It was real, and it had rules.
Kill. Devour. Grow.
He looked at the Shop list again. The words shimmered faintly in his vision, waiting for him to act.
Bread – 1 point
Water – 1 point
Kitchen knife – 2 points
9mm pistol (with 1 mag) – 10 points
He had nothing left to spend. The knife in his lap had cost him everything he'd earned from the first corpse.
His stomach growled, hollow and sharp. Food. Water. Sleep. All of it felt distant, secondary. Because now he knew: if he wanted to live, he needed points. And points only came one way.
He gripped the knife tighter. He had to kill.
When the sun finally clawed its way up behind the crimson haze, Zeke climbed down the fire escape. His movements were cautious, precise. Every scrape of metal, every loose rung felt like an alarm that might draw the things below.
The streets were quieter than last night, but not silent. Never silent. Somewhere far off, a woman screamed, cut short by a wet tearing sound. The moans of the dead drifted between alleys.
Zeke kept low, knife in hand, eyes sharp.
The first store he tried was a wreck. The windows had been smashed in, shelves overturned, products scattered and trampled. He searched anyway, moving quickly.
A bag of chips half-crushed under a display. A bottle of water that reeked of gasoline. A sandwich molding in its wrapper.
His jaw tightened. Worthless.
He glanced at the Shop again, cursing under his breath. The list taunted him—fresh bread, clean water—things that were impossible to find here but sat neatly behind the System's paywall.
It wasn't just offering survival. It was controlling it.
Zeke shoved the chips into his backpack anyway. Trash was still calories.
He heard them before he saw them.
Low, guttural moans. Feet dragging against asphalt.
Zeke froze, slipping back into the shadows of the alley. His eyes scanned the street. Six of them. Their skin sagged, gray and mottled. One woman's jaw dangled loose, hanging by threads of muscle. Another man's spine was bent backward unnaturally, head lolling with each step.
A pack.
His pulse quickened, but not from fear. He gripped the knife tighter, his mind already working. Six wasn't impossible. Not if he was smart.
The alley narrowed to a choke point near the dumpsters. If he drew them in, he could take them one at a time.
Zeke stepped out, stone in his hand. He hurled it down the street. The clatter echoed, and the corpses turned instantly, groaning, stumbling toward him.
He backed into the alley, knife ready.
The first came fast, a staggering man in a shredded business suit. Zeke sidestepped, driving the blade into its temple. The body crumpled.
The second lunged, mouth snapping. Zeke slashed its throat, kicked it back into the wall, then finished it with a stab through the skull.
The third was slower, arms dragging. Easy—too easy. He cut it down in seconds.
By the fourth, sweat blurred his vision. His arms ached with each swing, his breath coming faster.
The fifth caught him off guard, clawing across his arm. Pain seared white-hot, shallow but sharp. Zeke gritted his teeth, ignoring the blood as he rammed the knife up under its chin.
The sixth nearly bowled him over, its weight slamming him into the wall. Its jaws snapped an inch from his throat. Zeke shoved upward, muscles screaming, and jammed the blade through its eye. The corpse twitched, then dropped.
Silence returned.
Zeke leaned against the wall, gasping. His arm burned from the cut, blood dripping onto the pavement. His muscles trembled, knife slick in his grip.
But he was alive.
The Cores glowed faintly in the corpses.
Zeke forced himself forward, crouching over each body.
Devour?
"Yes."
The black smoke rushed into him again, hotter this time, sharper. His stomach churned, bile rising. He gagged, almost vomiting, but forced himself to endure.
One by one, the warmth filled his veins. His muscles ached as they expanded, fibers tearing and reforging stronger. His mind buzzed, thoughts clearer, sharper.
Devour complete. +12 points. +30 EXP.
Level Up. Level 2 achieved.
The burn faded. His breathing steadied. His cut still hurt, but less than before, like the pain itself had dulled under the rush of growth.
Zeke stood taller. Stronger.
He opened the Shop again, its text shimmering across his vision.
Bread – 1 point
Water – 1 point
Bandages – 2 points
Baseball bat with nails – 3 points
Reinforced jacket – 4 points
Handgun (3 rounds) – 8 points
His eyes lingered on the handgun. Safety. Distance. But three bullets wouldn't last, and the price was too steep.
He exhaled slowly. "Bandages. Jacket."
The items materialized before him. Clean, sterile bandages. A black jacket, thick and reinforced. He wrapped his arm carefully, the sterile fabric soothing against the wound. The jacket fit perfectly, its weight settling across his shoulders like armor.
Not scavenged. Not looted. Given. By the System.
Zeke flexed his hand, knife gleaming in his grip. "Fine. I'll play your game."
By evening, the streets glowed red again under the haze. Zeke had climbed into a half-collapsed building, finding a corner near the second floor to rest.
The city was quieter now. Corpses littered the streets like discarded dolls. Smoke curled from fires left burning.
For the first time since the world ended, Zeke allowed himself to breathe. His body was stronger. His knife sharp. His jacket tight around him. He had points left to spend, and the Shop waiting.
He might live.
He leaned back against the crumbling wall, closing his eyes. His body ached, but it was a clean ache, earned.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Fast. Precise.
Not the dragging shuffle of the shamblers. Not the uneven stagger.
Running.
Zeke's eyes snapped open. He moved to the edge of the ruined floor, peering down into the street.
A figure darted across the asphalt. On all fours. Its limbs moved with unnatural speed, claws scraping sparks from the ground. Its head jerked unnaturally as it sniffed the air, then snapped upward.
Its eyes glowed faintly in the red haze.
A Runner.
Zeke gripped the knife tighter, breath steadying.
The first day was over.
And the real monsters were only just beginning.