My name is Ming Fang.
On the first day of X month, 20XX, after years of skirting the edge of being late but never actually failing, I finally did.
The sunlight pouring through my window was so blinding it felt like the sun had parked itself right outside. Judging by the brightness, it had to be close to nine o'clock. Did I stay up late last night? Probably. My sluggish brain couldn't even remember.
My body felt stiff, like I hadn't moved in days. It reminded me of stroke patients—weak, clumsy, unable to control their limbs. Could someone my age really have a stroke? I thought about my lifestyle: a bit lazy, a homebody, but I still went to work, didn't stay up late often, and I'm young. It shouldn't be possible.
I tried to shrug, but even that was too much effort.
Every movement felt like I was wrapped in invisible ropes. Just reaching for my phone was slow and awkward, like a snail dragging itself forward. Was I sick? Could I use this as an excuse to skip work?
The thought of "stroke" quickly gave way to another: how to phrase a believable sick note. Stroke? Too dramatic. Even if it might be true.
I checked the time: 7:03. Not late yet, but still a disaster—because it meant I had to get up and go to work.
As a kid, I had a wind‑up dinosaur toy. Its head, claws, and tail moved one click at a time. That's exactly how I felt now. Sitting up, turning my head, I could hear my bones creak.
Forty minutes later, I was finally washed and out the door. Normally it takes me less than twenty. Today, I felt like a malfunctioning robot.
The hallway was filled with strange noises, but I ignored them. It wasn't the weekend—parents were busy sending kids to school. I needed to hurry before the elevator got crowded.
My legs didn't cooperate. I felt like a puppet, jerky and awkward. Would the kids laugh at me? Fine, laugh if you must. Just don't call me "auntie."
The elevator arrived quickly, but the floor was sticky, smeared with something dark. I stepped around it carefully, though even simple movements drained me.
Was I really sick? Nothing had been wrong yesterday. What kind of illness strikes this suddenly?
I imagined myself in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors firing questions: "What do you think you have?" "What symptoms led you to that?" "How would you treat it?" "Write your own medical record."
I trembled involuntarily, like a seizure. Thankfully, no one else was in the elevator to witness my collapse of dignity.
Outside, the sunlight was so intense I could barely see. Oddly, I felt no heat at all. July sun with no warmth—something was wrong.
I pressed the key to unlock my scooter. No sound. Walked a few steps, pressed again—faintly heard it. I followed the noise until I found it.
Helmet on, I noticed someone stumbling out of the corner store. Too far, too bright—I couldn't see their face. Their movements were stiff, unnatural, like they might collapse at any moment.
I didn't stop. I was already late.
Riding my scooter felt strangely easy, despite my clumsy limbs. Maybe muscle memory saved me.
The streets were empty. Maybe everyone was already busy, or still asleep. I envied those still in bed. Tomorrow, maybe I could be one of them.
That comforting thought froze instantly. On the roadside, someone was eating.
Not breakfast. Flesh.
Blood pooled on the pavement. A severed hand. Torn fabric soaked in red. Chunks of meat.
Maybe it was a car accident, I told myself. But I couldn't ignore the truth: someone was crouched there, chewing.
More people staggered out of nearby houses, first toward me, then veering toward the bloody scene.
My shock was as immense as the sun itself. My hands gripped the scooter handles, rigid, refusing to tremble.
I rode past without looking back. I didn't want to confirm what I'd seen.
This was the same road I'd taken every day for months. Today, it felt like the road to the underworld.
My heartbeat grew louder—bean, apple, drum, war drum. Each thud echoed like a countdown.
Surrounded by blinding light, I felt as if I had sunk into a black, viscous sea. I couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't even tell if I was breathing.
The first day of the end had begun.