The metallic tang of blood was the first sensation, thick and suffocating. It coated his tongue, not his own, but the memory of it, an unbearable phantom. Then came the cold, unforgiving press of asphalt against his cheek, the acrid scent of a burning city, and the distant, wet snarl of the undead. And through it all, her voice. Sweet, deceptively innocent.
"I'm sorry, Dohyun. It was for the best."
A single gunshot, echoing in a world already devoured by screams. Not a zombie's bite, not a horde's tearing claws, but a bullet, fired by her, delivered by him. His supposed girlfriend, Min-ji, and her true lover, the gang leader, Hyuk-jin. He remembered the smirk on Hyuk-jin's face, the words like poison.
"Oh, and by the way, that little sister of yours? Yeah, she got in the way a while back. Funny how things work out."
Rage, pure and blinding, had been his last sensation. He'd wanted to tear them apart, even as life drained from him, pooling stickily beneath his head. He wanted to watch them suffer, to make them beg for the mercy they denied him.
Then, darkness. Not the void of death he expected, but a deep, dreamless void that finally began to recede.
A different smell filled his nostrils. Fabric softener. Dust. Instant coffee.
A different sound. The irritating, incessant drone of a morning alarm clock.
Dohyun's eyes snapped open. The ceiling was white, unblemished by grime or bloodstains. A poster of a generic K-pop group stared down at him. Sunlight, bright and golden, streamed through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
He was in his old room. His pre-apocalypse room.
Panic clawed at his throat, colder than any zombie's touch. He shot upright, his body protesting with a jolt of unfamiliar stiffness. He checked his side, where Hyuk-jin's bullet had ripped through him. No wound. Not even a scar. His clothes were his worn university sweats, not the blood-soaked rags of a dying survivor.
He scrambled out of bed, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. His hands shook so violently he almost dropped it. The lock screen lit up: Monday, June 14th, 202X. 7:00 AM.
June 14th.
The apocalypse began in December.
Six months. Six months before the world ended. Six months before Min-ji lured him to his death. Six months before Hyuk-jin confirmed he had murdered his younger sister, Yoona, months before the outbreak even began.
Dohyun stared at his reflection in the dark phone screen. His eyes, usually calm, were wide and bloodshot, a desperate kind of wildness stirring within their depths. He looked haunted, like a ghost accidentally returned to the land of the living.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and incandescent rage. This wasn't a dream. The memory was too vivid, the betrayal too sharp, the pain too real. He had been given a second chance, thrown back into the past, armed with knowledge that could save him, and damn it, give him his revenge.
But first, survival. And the very first step was to escape this damn room. This damn, vulnerable building. He needed supplies. He needed a fortress. He needed to prepare for the hell he knew was coming.
He flung open his wardrobe. Old t-shirts. Jeans. Nothing suitable for scavenging, for fighting, for killing. He needed to get out. But where to start?
He needed money. Untraceable money. Cash. Lots of it.
His gaze fell upon his desktop computer, humming softly in the corner. His bank account details, his investment portfolio, his small savings from part-time jobs. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He remembered vaguely that the stock market had taken a dip around August, then recovered briefly before the final crash in December. Could he play the market, even just a little, to bolster his funds? It was a risk, but he had six months.
Six months to become a ghost, to build a sanctuary, and to forge himself into the weapon he needed to be. Six months to prepare for the inevitable, and six months to make sure Hyuk-jin and Min-ji paid for what they did.
His eyes, which had been wild, slowly hardened, settling into a cold, focused glint. The terror was still there, a low hum beneath his skin, but it was now overshadowed by a burning, resolute purpose.
The K-pop poster still smiled down, oblivious. Dohyun walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, surveying the bustling street below. Cars drove past. People walked their dogs, chatted on phones, headed to work. Normalcy. A fragile lie, waiting to shatter.
They don't know, he thought, a chilling sense of isolation washing over him. But I do.
He felt a primal urge to scream, to warn them all, but he knew it was futile. No one would believe him. He had to be smarter, faster, and infinitely more ruthless than he had been in his past life.
His gaze narrowed, scanning the buildings, the alleys, the potential escape routes. He had been too trusting once. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He needed a place no one would find. A place he could turn into an impregnable fortress.
He needed to start now.
What would such a street look like in South Korea? A normal, bustling morning, completely unaware of the impending doom.