With only the sound of his own breathing filling the room, silence reigned. Ângelo sat on the floor behind the counter, staring at his phone.
The lighting was dimmed to the bare minimum—drawing any attention from outside would be a death sentence. The makeshift barricade didn't even cover the shop's front door completely. It wasn't enough to give him any real sense of safety.
He scrolled through social media, searching for anything—news, updates, signs of hope.
"It's the end times! Where are these things coming from!?"
"I swear I saw a dragon flying—my neighborhood's gone, the entire block just exploded!"
"National emergency declared. Citizens advised to seek shelter. Military response is on the way."
He wanted to believe this was just happening in his city. That maybe, somehow, this was a localized event.
It wasn't.
Pictures of monsters. Panic posts. News flashes. It was everywhere. The whole country. The whole world.
A multi-headed serpent wrapped around the Statue of Liberty. In France, something like a massive turtle had toppled the Eiffel Tower.
Was this really the end of the world?
His chest tightened. Seeing so much destruction—so many people dying—was something his generation, raised in comfort, never imagined. But before the anxiety could spiral further, the internet cut off. No warning. Just... gone.
Even his mobile signal died.
All his connection to the outside world disappeared in an instant.
He waited. Five minutes. Ten. A full hour.
Still nothing.
Deep down, he knew. The infrastructure must've collapsed—monsters tearing through the streets, destroying everything in their path. Honestly, he was surprised the signal had lasted this long. At least it had confirmed one thing: this was global.
And oddly, there was relief in the silence. If he kept reading about the chaos, he would've snapped. Another panic attack? Maybe worse.
No signal meant no more horrors. No more screaming headlines. Just stillness.
He was alone.
Not that different from how life had always been—but still, the loneliness stung. Like drifting through a storm with no shore in sight, no compass, no anchor.
Sighing, Ângelo lowered his phone and turned off the screen. His entire body ached from stress. All he wanted was to cry, to disappear.
Why was this happening?
He placed a hand on his chest and inhaled deeply. These thoughts wouldn't help. He had to survive. Somehow.
Where that will to live came from, he couldn't say. He was never particularly strong-minded. Maybe it was shock.
Or… Maybe he was just losing it.
Standing slowly, he peered toward the door.
The street outside looked deserted. The chaos from earlier had vanished, just like that. But the air still carried the stench of rot—thick, heavy, like a corpse left out for days.
He had a pretty good idea where the smell was coming from. He chose not to dwell on it.
"…There's nothing I can do."
Shaking his head, he moved cautiously around the store, careful not to make a sound.
He hadn't explored the place earlier. After barricading the door, he'd gone straight behind the counter. Now, a closed door caught his eye in the back corner. Probably led to the stockroom—or maybe a rear exit.
He hoped it was the former. He didn't want another vulnerable point to guard.
His priority now was food. A weapon, too, if possible. Sooner or later, he'd need to defend himself.
"Is it pessimistic to assume people'll be dangerous too…?" He chuckled darkly at his own thought. But it wasn't pessimism. It was reality.
Human nature. Desperation.
Now in front of the door, he hesitated for a moment, then slowly turned the knob.
A flick of light spilled into the main room. Ângelo was right—it was a mix of employee area and stockroom. On the left, a table with some chairs, a deck of cards. A small break room setup. Microwave. Fridge. On the right, rows of metal shelving.
Boxes stacked haphazardly. Dust in the air. No signs of life.
Good.
Covering his nose, he stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.
Safer now. At least from sight. The walls would muffle sound too.
No windows. Even better.
Feeling a little more at ease, he opened the fridge.
The sound was loud. Maybe he was getting paranoid.
And then, something struck him.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No car alarms. No explosions. No screams. No growls. No movement. Just dead silence.
Had that thing done something?
He shelved the question. Focused on the fridge's contents.
Leftover chicken breast. Two raw tomatoes. A container of red gelatin.
That was it.
A knot formed in his stomach.
His plan was to hide there for a few days and wait for military rescue. But with that little food?
Even with extreme rationing, he might last three days. Four, tops.
Unless help came, he'd be digging his own grave.
He checked the freezer. Nothing but an ice tray. Cabinets? Some cookware, cleaning supplies. Useless. One drawer had knives, though. That might help.
He moved to the boxes in the stockroom.
Bowls. Trinkets. Random manga.
The best he found was a dull replica katana—cheap plastic. It would snap on impact.
A bathroom was tucked in the corner. One roll of toilet paper and a small window. No shower.
Resources: almost nonexistent.
He had some water from the store's reserve. Maybe a week's worth—if he was lucky. No real gear. Barely any food. He was trapped, and his makeshift barricade meant he couldn't even leave without making a ton of noise.
He'd protected himself—and locked himself in.
Lost in thought, Ângelo didn't notice the dark blood starting to drip from his nose until it touched his lip. He wiped it off, confused.
"Blood…?"
Then a deep, violent cough shook his chest, splattering dark red across the floor.
His hands trembled. His mind raced.
Those people near the creature... They were oozing with black blood. Right before they changed. Was he next?
Heart pounding, he ran to the bathroom, wiping his mouth and nose.
"No. No. No."
A coincidence. It had to be.
He washed his face quickly. Tried to calm his heart. It's gonna be alright
But it wasn't.
Day One.
Nothing else happened. Just the coughing. He barely slept. The silence was unbearable—like something was watching him, always.
Day Two.
The hunger came.
He expected it, after eating only once the day before. But this… this wasn't normal. It was inhuman. Like his insides were being ripped apart.
The chicken called to him. And he broke.
With trembling hands, he grabbed the raw meat, unable to resist. It looked... delicious.
He bit into it—cold, raw, disgusting—and couldn't stop. He devoured it like an animal. The taste, the texture, the blood—none of it stopped him.
When he snapped out of it, he stared at his bloody hands in horror.
"What... am I doing?" Ângelo whispered, his mind in denial.
But instead of getting sick, he felt... full. Better than he had in days. Even the strange symptoms vanished.
That night, he slept easier.
Day Three.
The hunger returned, worse than ever. He ate everything left in the store, still starving. Still aching.
Another sleepless night. This time, he cried silently in the dark, hugging his frail body.
Day Four.
His muscles began to waste away. His ribs were showing. Arms brittle. Skin dry and cracking.
He coughed more blood—thicker, darker. Like tar.
"Why...? Why is this happening?"
It had only been days. How could he be in this state?
His will to live—his fire—was being smothered.
All those hopes. All that strength. Gone.
He was going to die.
Alone. Pathetic.
Sick. Starving. Forgotten.
He sat by the door, staring blankly. When had the lights gone out?
How long had he been like this?
He just wanted to rest.
So tired.
His eyes fluttered. Breathing shallow. Body limp.
"I'll just... sleep."
His vision faded. Life drained.
But fate wasn't done with him yet.
A screen appeared before his eyes.
[Welcome, Awakened]
Its yellow glow turned red.
[Error: Awakened in critical condition. Initiating emergency restoration.]
[Adding trial to your legend]
[Adding challenge to your legend]
[Title granted: Between Life and Death]
[Ding! Congratulations on receiving your first title]
[...]
Ângelo's eyes closed, unconscious—more messages flashing into the dark.