When the apocalypse struck, Changbin had been working. He'd just finished unloading the last box from the truck into the narrow aisles of the 7/11, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat.Changbin wasn't the kind of worker who drifted through life easily. Everything he did carried purpose, from stocking shelves that doubled as exercise to humming that kept him focused; hobbies stacked up whenever boredom hit. Ambition defined him—ambition that had carried him across the world as an international scholar. He had left home -Queensland, Australia- early, kissed his mother goodbye, and thrown himself into a new life. Within days of arriving, he landed two jobs, signed up for ten extra credit hours, and, on only the second day of classes, already made five friends.That morning, he jogged to work, brimming with determination. But by the time he stepped inside, the news had already broken. A plane crash. Warnings to stay indoors. His boss tried to reassure him, telling him he could sleep in the office if things dragged into the night, even offering him a ride the next day.It might have been comforting—until the first explosion hit.The floor shuddered, glass rattled in its frames, and the lights flickered overhead. A deep roar rolled through the air, so loud it rattled his teeth, warning sirens blaring. Changbin froze where he stood, his heart slamming in his chest. Another blast cracked in the distance, closer this time, the kind that felt like it pressed down on your skull.He stumbled back behind the counter, crouching low. Through the narrow glass panes of the storefront, he caught the faint glow of fire rising above the buildings two streets over. The bomb hadn't struck the store—but it was close enough that he could feel the aftershock in his bones.Dust drifted from the ceiling tiles, settling on the racks of instant noodles and bottled water. The store felt too small now, too fragile. Locked inside with nothing but humming fluorescent lights and the faint smell of scorched air, Changbin realized for the first time just how quickly the world outside had turned into something unrecognizable. An hour later, the power cut. The hum of the coolers died, the overhead lights blinked out, and the 7/11 sank into suffocating silence. Only the faint orange glow of the streetlights outside seeped through the windows, leaving the aisles swathed in shadow.Changbin tested machine after machine, pressing buttons, flipping switches—nothing. The dead quiet pressed in on him until he finally dug his phone out of his pocket, clinging to one last hope. If he could just call his mother. If he didn't make it out of this... at least he could hear her voice."Ah, ssi-bal," he cursed under his breath. No signal. The screen stared back at him, useless.That's when he heard it.A soft tapping. Faint, deliberate. The sound clawed its way up his spine, making his hair crawl. His heart nearly stopped until he remembered. His boss. Out back for a smoke. Relief trickled in, taking a breath, shaky and thin.He forced himself toward the back door, each step echoing too loudly against the tile. But before his hand reached the handle, the tapping changed—sharper, harder. Tap. Tap. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG!"What the fuck..." Changbin whispered, throat dry, as he leaned toward the peephole.The moment his eye met the glass, his stomach lurched violently. He staggered back, gagging, before doubling over and vomiting onto the floor.His boss stood there—or what was left of him. Skin was ripped open in long, jagged tears, flesh hanging like soaked rags. Blood poured sluggishly down his chest, streaking his shirt in dark patches. Dirt clung to the raw, sagging organs that pressed against his ribs as he moved and dangled from his split stomach. And his mouth—god, his mouth—gnashed and gurgled against the steel door, smearing it red.The snarls vibrated through the thin metal, animalistic and endless, as if the man he once knew had already been swallowed whole.Changbin wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, bile burning his throat. He was locked in. The door was the only thing standing between him and whatever his boss had become. And for the first time, he understood that he wasn't safe—not here, not anywhere.Changbin hurriedly sprinted back into the main store, lungs burning, every sound from the back door echoing in his head. He threw himself into the office first, dragging out whatever he could find—spare tiles, splintered boards, even old display panels—and slamming them against the windows, hammering them into place with trembling hands. He stuffed strips of cloth and rags under the doors until his fingers ached, praying it would be enough to muffle the smell, to buy him time if he had any.His chest heaved. He wasn't done. He couldn't be done.He tore through drawers and shelves, snatching up box cutters, shaving razors, and even chipped kitchen knives from the break room. His hands shook as he bound them with duct tape to a snapped-off broom handle, layering cutlery and metal together into a jagged, uneven spear. It looked pathetic and barely holding, but it was something, and better than nothing. Heart pounding, he stumbled behind the counter, his mind racing. The revolver. His boss kept a revolver. He dropped to his knees, yanking open panels until he found the small steel lockbox tucked by the panic button.He slammed his fist on the panic button. Metal shutters groaned as they rolled down over the doors, the locks clicking into place. The sound was both a comfort and a death sentence—sealing him in as much as it sealed anything out.The lockbox glared at him. Salvation, right there in reach. He clawed at it, cursed it, and rattled it with both hands until his knuckles split against the metal from punching it. A single tear streaked his cheek as he realized what he'd forgotten—the key. Around his boss's neck. Out back."Fuck... fuck, fuck, fuck!" he whispered, almost chanting as panic chewed through his throat.He dug through drawers, scavenged shelves, searching for anything—crowbar, screwdriver, even the rusted hammer shoved under the register. He tried the rotators from the hotdog warmer and even threw them against the microwave. He didn't want to use the hammer. He knew the crash would echo through the store, loud enough to draw whatever was outside closer. But his options were slipping away.The snarls at the back door seemed louder now, clawing at his skull. Changbin pressed the flat of his hand against the lockbox, sweat dripping off his nose, his breath ragged. He was running out of time. Running out of options.And the hammer felt heavier every time he looked at it.
He stood and gripped the hammer in one hand, the spear in the other, making up his mind as his only option now was to get the key.