The streets of Shinjuku were quieter now. No cars. No chatter. No neon lights bleeding through the midnight sky. Only the soft crunch of glass under Kōta Izumi's boots as he moved, slow and careful, his breath misting in the chill.
He kept low, a hunting knife in one hand, the strap of his backpack tight in the other. Every sound mattered in this city. A flutter of wings meant crows. A scraping shuffle on the pavement could mean the dead.
Or worse—the living.
Kōta ducked behind the rusted husk of a vending machine, eyes scanning the intersection. The buildings loomed like hollow skeletons, their windows broken, their walls streaked black from old fires. It smelled of rot and rain. He hated that smell. It reminded him of Aki.
The bracelet on his wrist—thin silver, worn down at the edges—caught a bit of moonlight. His sister's. The only thing left.
Keep moving, Kōta.
He tightened his grip on the knife and slipped into the crosswalk. The silence didn't last. A low, wet moan drifted from a collapsed storefront. Then another. Shadows stirred, dragging themselves into the open.
Four of them.
Their movements were slow, jerky. Rot had eaten through their muscles, their jaws hanging open like broken hinges. But Kōta knew better than to underestimate them. Slow didn't mean harmless. Slow meant patient.
He darted forward before they could close in, his knife flashing. One fell, its skull caved in with a swift strike. Another lunged, but Kōta shoved it back into the broken glass, its body collapsing in a twitching heap.
The last two kept coming.
Kōta cursed under his breath, backing into the alley. He didn't want to waste energy, not tonight. His legs were already burning from hours of scavenging. He could hear the scrape of feet echoing behind him—more were coming.
Then he heard it.
A voice.
Smooth. Calm. Cutting through the silence like a blade.
"You're quick. Quicker than the last time."
Kōta froze. He turned slowly.
At the far end of the alley stood a figure half-shrouded in shadow. Tall. Confident. A long coat brushing against his boots. His eyes—dark, sharp—watched Kōta not with hunger, but with something far more dangerous.
Recognition.
Obsession.
"Still running, Izumi?" The man's smile was faint, cold. "One day, you'll realize you don't have to. Not from me."
Kōta's heart lurched. He knew that voice. He remembered the night he'd dragged this man out of a swarm, thinking it was just another stranger. He should have let the dead have him.
The man stepped forward, into the thin light. Renji Kuroda.
Leader of a rival camp. Charismatic. Ruthless. And worst of all—fixated.
Kōta backed away, knife raised. "Stay the hell away from me."
Renji tilted his head, amused, as if Kōta's defiance was part of some game. The groans of the infected grew louder, closer.
"You'll see soon," Renji murmured, voice almost tender. "Out here, you don't survive alone. You survive with me."
The dead closed in from behind. Renji didn't move. He only smiled.
And Kota realised with a chill, He wasn't sure which danger was worse.
The moans of the dead echoed down the alleyway, a chorus of decay that made Kōta's skin crawl. He didn't look back. His knife flashed once more, and a reanimated hand went slack under his strike. The others shuffled after him relentlessly.
Renji's voice came from the shadows again, calm and unhurried.
"You can't keep running, Izumi. One day, you'll understand."
Kōta's heart pounded. He knew Renji wasn't bluffing. Every instinct screamed to sprint, but the narrow alley left him little room to maneuver.
A sharp turn, then a leap over a toppled dumpster, and he burst onto a wider street. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting long, fractured shadows. The infected closed in, stumbling blindly, but relentless.
And then—movement from the opposite side.
A group of survivors emerged from a side street, armed and cautious. Their leader, a young woman with short brown hair and a bandaged arm, gestured frantically.
"Over here! Quick!"
Kōta didn't hesitate. He dove behind them as one of the dead lunged past. Breathing hard, he took stock. Four of them. Armed, scared, but alive.
"Who are you?" Kōta asked, scanning their faces.
"Name's Hana," the woman said, voice sharp. "We're just trying to survive like everyone else. You're… fast. We saw you back there."
Fast. He didn't want to admit how tired he was. How close he had come to death again. But words wouldn't save him.
Another groan. One of the dead stumbled out of the shadows closer than he expected. Kōta reacted instinctively, his knife flashing. Hana's group flinched, but he didn't hesitate.
"Move!" he barked. Together, they dashed into a crumbling building. Dust rose in clouds, choking, masking their movements. They barricaded the door with old furniture and a chain pulled from a nearby shelf.
For a moment, there was silence. Heartbeats, quick and heavy. Then Hana's gaze found his.
"You're alone, aren't you?"
Kōta swallowed. He wanted to deny it, but the truth was raw. "Yeah… I'm alone."
Hana's eyes softened slightly, but she didn't linger. "You'd better come with us then. It's safer in numbers. Just… stay quiet. And don't go wandering off."
Kōta nodded, still scanning the broken windows. Somewhere out there, Renji watched. Waiting. The thought made his stomach tighten.
He had survived the swarm, survived the streets, and now, perhaps, he had allies. But he couldn't shake the gnawing sense that the real danger was already inside the shadows—patient, watching, and obsessed with him.
Outside, the moans continued. Inside, he drew a shaky breath and prepared for the next fight.