The streets of Oxford were never meant for silence.
Normally, there were sounds—the click of bicycle chains, the hiss of bus brakes, the overlapping rhythm of conversation and wind. But now the city had gone mute.
The only thing still talking was the rain.
Kazuma Aoki moved down the soaked street, his hood up, shoes splashing in thin puddles that reflected sickly streetlight. His rucksack bounced lightly against his back. Every step was measured, efficient—like he was timing himself in his head.
Two minutes to the corner, five to the workshop. Come on, concentrate. Noise means life, silence means unknowns.
He looked at his watch. 16:42. The day had died early.
The morning had been spent repairing a generator in a friend's flat—one of those small, harmless tasks that made the world feel controllable. Everything outside the workshop seemed unstable now. News feeds were clogged with words like "outbreak," "panic," "lockdown."
He hated that word—outbreak. It sounded like a system failure. Like pressure building until something bursts.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
[Lila: "They're saying it's an infection. Hospitals are collapsing."]
[Ben: "Lockdown starting soon. Where are you guys??"]
[Kazuma: "On my way back to the workshop. Keep inside."]
He pocketed the phone and kept moving. The air smelled faintly metallic—like wet steel. He turned the corner near the alley that led to the east gate.
Then something moved forward.
A man stumbled out from the shadows, clothes ripped, skin gray and slick, moving as if his body had forgotten how to be human.
Kazuma froze. His mind clicked into assessment mode.
Injury? Drunk? Hypothermic?
"Sir? You need help?"
The man looked up.
His eyes were white and glazed, his mouth open in a quivering lip twitch, as if static trying to form a word. Then he launched himself forward in a jerky lurch.
Kazuma didn't think; he reacted.
He stepped aside as the man lunged, momentum carrying him past. The world slowed—the hiss of rain, the thud of bodies, the crack of wet pavement. Kazuma's hand found the spanner half-protruding from his bag, and he swung with every bit of leverage his frame allowed.
The sound—that sharp, wet impact. The man dropped.
For a long second, Kazuma stood over him, his chest heaving. Rain hit his face in thin, cold lines.
Blood pooled, thin and red, around the drain.
No hesitation. No remorse. Analyze later.
He crouched, eyes scanning. The man wasn't breathing. His skin looked waxy, like it had already stopped being skin.
Kazuma straightened, forcing his mind back into rhythm.
Data point number one: infected subject exhibits aggression and decay. Data point number two: aim for the head. Data point number three: don't freeze again.
He adjusted his hood and continued walking, now even quicker.
The engineering building loomed through the rain, square and industrial, a fortress of concrete and glass. Normally it felt like home, the smell of oil, the sound of cutting torches. Now it looked like a skeleton.
The gate was open. The security post abandoned.
Someone should be here. Someone is always here.
A car had crashed through part of the fence, windshield shattered. The driver's door hung open.
There was a sudden sharp metallic clang from somewhere in the yard. Then a dragging sound.
Kazuma's pulse quickened, and his mind whispered the things he hated thinking: Don't go in. You know what this means. You saw it on the street.
But he couldn't leave his tools, not his space. Not the one place that made sense to him.
He came inside slowly, his footsteps careful against the wet concrete. Inside, the shadows were long, cut by flickering fluorescent lights. He passed a half-finished locomotive project—ribs of metal, exposed gears. It was familiar comfort in an unfamiliar nightmare.
Then—movement.
A figure stumbled from behind the engine block.
"Liam?"
The voice cracked on instinct. Liam, the quiet guy in the mechanical club who fixed things until late at night. His eyes were cloudy, shirt torn, skin gray and lifeless.
Kazuma took a step back. "Liam. Stop. Don't."
No reaction.
Liam twitched, his head jerking to the side—then charged.
Kazuma turned and bolted.
Boots hammered the floor. He sprinted down the corridor, breath tearing through his lungs. He hit the workshop door, slammed it behind him and locked the latch—just as something slammed into the other side.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
He retreated backward, his heart thundering. His mind screamed in panic, but he crushed it down like he'd done a hundred times in exams and deadlines.
"Emotion is a variable," he muttered, low and cold. "Solve for survival."
He scanned the room: tools everywhere, shadows stretching out long under the emergency red lights.
Block entrances. Secure food. Weaponize tools.
He had welded two support beams across the main door until it glowed orange at the edges. A compressor rolled against the side exit. The smell of burnt metal mixed with rain.
Step one: contained.
He raided the kitchenette: protein bars, bottled water, instant coffee. All were tossed into a duffel.
Step two: sustained.
Then his gaze fell upon the wall rack: tools gleaming there like relics.
He pulled down an industrial nail gun, pneumatic and powerful, meant for fastening steel frames. His engineer's brain flickered to life.
Pressure limited. Range short. Regulator adjustable.
He worked fast. Tightened the spring coil, bypassed the safety lock, wired a spare compressor hose for consistent pressure. From the scrap bin, he taped a small LED light to the side. His fingers were steady. He didn't feel fear while building—only math.
When he fired it, the gun hissed and spat a nail that went deep into a wooden post.
He smiled faintly. "Everything's a system."
He loaded a pouch with nails and holstered the gun.
Outside, the dragging sound returned. Slow. Rhythmic.
He killed the floodlamp, leaving only the red glow. Shadows breathed across the walls. He crouched behind the bench, nail gun ready.
The handle twitched. Once. Twice. Then stopped.
He waited.
Patience. Observation. Measure the threat before acting.
A minute passed. Two. The silence thickened.
His breath fogged faintly in the cold air. His hands were steady, but his heartbeat sounded like a ticking fuse.
He stood slowly and turned his gaze toward the door.
Nothing.
Only the dark hall and the echo of sirens somewhere far away, drowned by rain.
He leaned against the bench, staring at the scattered tools—each one a fragment of logic in a world gone irrational.
He opened his notebook. The pages were soaked at the edges, but his pen still moved. Diagrams. Escape routes. Resource allocations.
If I can map it, I can control it. Control is survival.
He paused. The door creaked. Just once—the faintest bend of metal.
He froze, eyes on the hinge.
Then came a soft sound—like fingernails tracing across the steel in a single drag.
It's still out there. Listening. Testing.
Kazuma clenched his jaw. He directed the nail gun at the door, his finger just above the trigger.
Outside, the rain whispered against the concrete.
Inside, the emergency light pulsed like a heartbeat.
He waited, muscles coiled, his every thought reduced to a single principle that had kept him alive all his life:
If I understand the system, then I can survive it.
A shadow shifted under the door—slow, deliberate.
Tap. sound of nail hit flesh and bone of the head
Only one soft tap. Then silence. Kazuma didn't blink. He aimed, exhaled, and whispered to the dark:
"Let's see what variables you bring."
The storm outside howled through the cracks, while Oxford descended into chaos—and for now, the workshop held. But the order never holds long.