After the flashback, Excel rubbed his injured arm, wincing as the bandage pulled against the bite wound. The sting was enough to remind him of one simple truth: be careful, or die. He muttered it to himself like a mantra, eyes narrowing at the towering building ahead.
He tightened his grip on the machete, adjusted his bandana, and walked forward until the rusted gates of the courtyard loomed before him.
The hotel's courtyard spread out like a forgotten palace. Wide stone paths split into elegant patterns, though weeds and vines had long since cracked through the once-flawless marble tiles. A massive fountain sat at the center, its water long gone, leaving only moss clinging to ornate carvings of lions and angels. Around the edges, broken benches leaned beneath the weight of creeping ivy, and shattered flower pots still carried the withered skeletons of exotic plants that once decorated the grounds.
Despite the decay, it still radiated grandeur. Excel found himself standing still, imagining what this place once was—laughter, expensive suits, dazzling dresses, the smell of cigars and perfume. Now it was silent, like an extravagant tomb.
He pushed forward, boots crunching on broken glass until he stood at the main entrance. The glass doors were shattered, their golden handles still gleaming faintly in the sunlight that filtered through. He stepped into the lobby and froze.
The interior was colossal.
A ceiling so high it made him crane his neck, decorated with cracked chandeliers that once showered the room in golden light. The marble floor stretched endlessly, polished tiles now dulled by dust but still carrying hints of their elegance. The walls were lined with wide paintings of landscapes and powerful men, most of them torn or faded. A grand staircase rose in the center, spiraling upward in twin arcs that led to the second-floor balcony.
Elevators stood in the far corner, their chrome doors rusted but intact. Across the lobby were entrances to different establishments—a swimming hall, a gambling lounge, a games room with arcade machines, and glass doors that led to a once-luxurious restaurant.
Excel exhaled slowly. This place has everything.
He explored carefully, machete raised. In the dining area, long tables sat with silverware still neatly placed as though waiting for guests. But when he opened the kitchen's cold storage, the stench hit him like a hammer. Rotten meat. Spoiled vegetables. Mold crawling across once-fine cheese. He gagged, covering his mouth.
"Figures," he muttered. "If I want to eat, I'll need to hunt… or find fruit."
He thought back to the rat, how easily it had thrived. If animals could adapt, he'd have to adapt too.
The first floor yielded little more than dust and memories. So he moved to the second. The elevator refused to budge, so he climbed the wide staircase, each step echoing in the silence. On the second floor, he found guest rooms—luxurious suites with massive beds, velvet curtains, and balconies overlooking the ruined courtyard. Some rooms looked like they were looted, drawers pulled open, clothes scattered across the floor. Others were eerily untouched, as if their occupants had vanished mid-stay.
The silence pressed heavy, but he pushed upward. Third floor. Fourth. By the fifth, he was sweating, his wound throbbing. He needed somewhere secure, somewhere high. His eyes locked on a door at the very top of the stairwell: Penthouse Suite.
"Perfect," he breathed.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside—only to freeze.
A shadow darted across the room.
Excel's grip tightened on his machete, adrenaline spiking as his eyes scanned the massive suite. Expensive sofas sat in the living room, a broken TV against the wall, shattered wine bottles glittering on the floor. But what caught his attention was movement near the bedroom doorway.
Then he heard it—quick breathing. Not his own.
In a blink, a figure lunged.
Excel raised his machete, ready to strike, when steel flashed in his face. Another weapon—a kitchen knife, aimed at his chest. He twisted, parried with the flat of his blade, and the clash rang sharp through the penthouse.
They circled each other, breathing hard. Her eyes were wild but sharp. A girl—slender but strong, her black hair pulled into a messy bun, her clothes torn from survival. Dirt streaked her cheeks, but beneath the grit her face was striking.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, voice low, knife steady.
Excel's own tone hardened. "I could ask you the same."
They stared each other down, both unwilling to back away. For a moment, Excel considered charging her, ending the threat before it grew. But then he saw it—the tremble in her knife hand. She wasn't reckless. She was scared. He understood. Besides, he needed company, an ally perhaps—and she was the only human he had seen since waking.
He lowered his machete, but kept his guard up.
Slowly, she lowered the blade too. "...Anna," she said at last, her voice softening. "My name's Anna."
"Excel," he replied.
The tension lingered, but the storm of violence had passed.
Over the next hour, they exchanged cautious words. She had been awake for three days, surviving off scavenged fruit from the city's overgrown trees and water collected from broken pipes. She had made the penthouse her base, though loneliness gnawed at her daily.
Excel admitted he had only been awake for two days.
While exploring the penthouse, Excel opened a cabinet in the far corner—and froze. Inside, beneath dust and scattered papers, lay a smartphone. Its glass was uncracked. Its screen lit up when he pressed the button.
A spark of disbelief surged through him. "It works."
Anna leaned closer, eyes wide.
The signal bars flickered. Weak, but there. Excel opened the emergency comms app—it was still logged into the hotel's secure network, a system meant for VIP guests. His hands trembled as he typed into one of the global channels.
But before he could hit send, a message popped up on the screen:
Hello, is anyone there?