The city never slept anymore.
Zeke sat in the shadow of the half-collapsed building, knife balanced on his knee, jacket pulled tight against the chill that crept in with nightfall. The crimson haze still loomed overhead, thicker in places like it was pressing down on the world. Smoke drifted from the skeletons of buildings, fires left unchecked. Somewhere far off, screams flared and then died, replaced by the guttural moans of the dead.
He hadn't slept. Couldn't. His body felt wired, alive in a way it never had before. Every sound cut sharp into his ears, every shadow twitched at the corner of his eyes. His muscles hummed with strength that wasn't his yesterday. The Devour skill had filled him with power, but it left him restless too, like he'd been stretched too thin over his own bones.
He wasn't tired. He was hungry.
Not for food—though his stomach cramped at the emptiness. Not for water—though his throat was parched.
He was hungry for more. More points. More Cores. More strength.
That was the rule now. Kill, devour, grow.
He gripped the knife tighter.
The sound came again.
Fast. Precise.
Not the dragging shuffle of shamblers. Not the uneven lurch of corpses breaking down.
This was running.
Zeke's breath slowed. He edged toward the gap in the broken wall, peering down at the street.
There.
A figure darted across the asphalt on all fours. Its limbs were too long, stretched unnaturally. Each movement snapped like a whip, claws sparking as they scraped concrete. Its head jerked side to side, sniffing, then snapping upward like a hound catching a scent.
Its eyes glowed faintly in the haze.
A Runner.
Zeke's jaw tightened. He hadn't fought one yet, but instinct told him this wasn't the same as shamblers. This wasn't something he could just sidestep and stab.
It moved like a predator.
And it had found him.
The Runner shrieked, a piercing wail that rattled the glass left clinging to nearby windows. Then it charged.
Zeke pulled back into the building, forcing himself calm, cold. He wasn't faster. He wouldn't win that way. He had to think.
The Runner slammed into the entrance, claws tearing through wood and stone like paper. Debris exploded across the floor as it burst inside, eyes wild, jaws snapping.
Zeke positioned himself by a leaning shelf. The space was narrow, tight. He wanted it that way—anything to limit its speed.
The Runner lunged.
Zeke ducked, the claws tearing through the air where his head had been. He slashed upward, his knife biting into its arm. Black blood sprayed, but the thing didn't falter. It twisted, kicking off the wall, coming back around in an instant.
Zeke's jacket tore open across the sleeve as its claw grazed him, but the reinforced fabric held—saving his flesh. Without it, his arm would've been opened to the bone.
He shoved a broken chair into its path. The Runner smashed through it like kindling, shrieking.
Zeke's breath came sharp, controlled. He sidestepped another lunge, rolling across the ground, knife flashing toward its neck. The blade sank halfway before the Runner jerked, slamming him back into the wall. Pain shot through his ribs.
The knife wrenched free as the Runner snapped its jaws an inch from his face. Spit and rot splattered across his cheek.
Zeke roared, shoving upward with all his strength, driving his knee into its gut. It staggered back just enough.
The shelf beside him was leaning, cracked at the base. He shoved hard, toppling it.
The Runner screeched as the heavy wood crashed down across its body, pinning it to the ground for just a heartbeat.
That was all Zeke needed.
He lunged, knife gripped in both hands, and drove the blade deep into its skull.
The Runner convulsed once. Then it went still.
Silence.
Zeke staggered back, chest heaving. His ribs screamed with each breath, his arm burned from strain, his hands shook.
But he was alive.
And then he saw it.
The Core floated above the Runner's chest, larger than the shamblers', brighter, pulsing like a heart.
The System's voice whispered:
Death Core detected. Devour?
Zeke's breath steadied. "Yes."
The orb dissolved, rushing into him like fire. His back arched, muscles seizing, bones aching as if they were being torn apart and reforged. His vision flared white, breath ripped from his lungs.
It felt like being split open from the inside, then stitched back together stronger.
Devour complete. +8 points. +20 EXP.
Level Up: Level 3 achieved.
Zeke collapsed to his knees, gasping. His veins thrummed, his body trembling with the rush. Slowly, the burn faded into something steadier. His grip on the knife was iron. His heart beat heavy, strong, unyielding.
He was stronger again.
He looked down at the Runner's body.
The Core had been guaranteed. He knew it. He felt it. The same way every shambler he killed had dropped one, without fail.
But something nagged at him.
If the System gave out Cores this easily, why wasn't the world already full of people like him? Why wasn't every survivor just grinding through shamblers, getting stronger by the hour?
His mind flashed back to the pack yesterday. Six kills. Six Cores. All his.
It was too consistent. Too perfect.
A cold thought settled in his chest.
It's just me.
The realization hit harder than the Runner's claws. If others had to gamble—if sometimes they killed and got nothing—then his advantage wasn't just luck. It was absolute.
He wasn't just surviving. He was outpacing everyone else in the world.
The Shop flickered again, words unfolding in his vision:
Combat boots (reinforced soles) – 5 points
Machete – 6 points
First aid kit – 6 points
Basic pistol (with 5 rounds) – 12 points
Zeke weighed them coldly. His ribs ached, his body sore. The first aid kit tempted him. But he thought of the Runner's speed, the way it closed distance in an instant.
He glanced at his boots, worn and thin.
"Combat boots," he muttered.
The weight materialized at his feet. Black leather, steel-toed, perfect condition. He laced them tight, the reinforced soles pressing solid against the ground. He stood taller, steadier.
The System wasn't just giving him tools. It was preparing him.
For what?
He didn't know. Yet.
Dawn broke across the city, painting the streets in crimson light. Zeke stood at the building's edge, scanning the ruins below. Shamblers staggered aimlessly, smoke curled from cars, the cries of the living had grown fewer.
Movement caught his eye.
A small group of survivors, huddled together, armed with pipes and bats. They swung clumsily at a shambler, beating it to the ground. The final blow caved in its skull.
They waited, panting, watching.
Nothing happened. No glow. No Core.
The corpse was just a corpse.
Zeke's hand tightened around his knife.
The truth was certain now.
I'm the only one.