The building Luna chose became her shelter not because it was strong, but because it was forgotten.
It was an old two-story clinic at the edge of the city, its windows cracked, its sign hanging by a single rusted chain. Ivy crawled up the walls like nature trying to reclaim what humanity had abandoned. The front doors were locked, but a broken side window had offered her entry.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and stale medicine.
But it was quiet.
And in this world, quiet meant survival.
Luna sat on the floor with her back against a reception desk, knees pulled to her chest, eyes half-closed but never fully resting. Every creak of the building made her flinch. Every distant groan—whether wind or undead—tightened her chest.
A translucent blue screen hovered in front of her vision.
Status Window
Name: Luna
Level: 1
HP: 72/100
Stamina: 34/100
Skills:
Basic Survival (Passive)
Dagger Mastery (Beginner)
Title: None
Hunger Level: High
She stared at the last line.
Hunger Level: High.
Her stomach twisted painfully, as if the system itself had given her body permission to hurt more.
"Great," she muttered under her breath. "Dying again, but slower."
The irony wasn't lost on her. She had died once already—betrayed by jealousy, by cruelty disguised as love. Now she was alive again, thrown into a world where survival was a game, where killing meant progress, and where hesitation meant death.
She pushed herself to her feet.
If she wanted to live, she needed food.
Carefully, she peeked through a crack in the boarded-up window. Outside, the street was bathed in the dull orange glow of a broken traffic light. Abandoned cars sat crookedly along the road. A figure shuffled past—skin gray, movements jerky, head hanging unnaturally to one side.
A zombie.
Her grip tightened around the small knife she had scavenged earlier from a kitchen drawer in an apartment complex.
"Just one," she whispered to herself. "I can handle one."
She slipped out through the broken window, landing silently in the overgrown grass behind the clinic. Her heart hammered in her chest with every step toward the street. The zombie hadn't noticed her yet. It was too busy dragging its feet, murmuring something that no longer resembled language.
The system didn't give her instructions.
No glowing arrows.
No warnings.
No mercy.
Only choice.
When she got close enough, she struck—just like she'd practiced in her head.
The knife went into the back of its neck.
The zombie jerked violently, letting out a wet, broken shriek. Panic exploded through her. She yanked the blade free and stabbed again. And again. And again.
Finally, it collapsed.
Luna stumbled back, gasping, hands shaking, chest heaving. Her clothes were splattered with dark, foul-smelling blood. Her vision blurred—not from damage, but from the overwhelming reality of what she'd just done.
She had killed something.
Something that used to be human.
A chime sounded.
Kill confirmed.
EXP gained: 10
Level remains: 1
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Instead, she wiped the blade against the grass and turned away, forcing herself not to look back.
Food.
That was the goal.
She moved carefully through nearby buildings: a convenience store with empty shelves, a café with overturned tables, a grocery store where the doors had been smashed open long ago. Most of the food was gone—taken by other survivors or spoiled by time.
But in the back of the grocery store, behind fallen shelves and broken crates, she found something.
Canned goods.
Not many. A few cans of beans. A can of soup. A pack of crackers sealed tightly enough to survive.
She almost cried from relief.
Back at the clinic, she ate slowly, savoring each bite as though it were precious. The system updated quietly in the corner of her vision.
Hunger Level: Moderate
For the first time since arriving in this world, her body felt… steadier.
She explored the clinic properly once the worst of the fear settled. The lower floor had examination rooms, supply closets, and a small pharmacy. Most of the medicine was gone or expired, but she did find bandages, alcohol wipes, and a half-full first aid kit.
Upstairs were staff rooms. One had a small bed.
It wasn't comfortable. The mattress was thin, the springs uneven.
But it was hers.
"I can make this work," she whispered.
For two days, she did.
She boarded up windows. Learned the sounds of the area. Counted the zombies that wandered nearby. Created escape routes. She began to understand the rhythm of this world: when it was safest to move, when danger peaked, when silence meant safety—and when it meant something was stalking.
She started to believe she had found a safe zone.
Then, on the third night, she heard voices.
Human voices.
She froze in bed.
"…you said this place was empty."
"It was. Someone's here now."
"Doesn't matter. Supplies are supplies."
Her blood turned cold.
Slow, careful footsteps moved through the clinic below.
Not zombies.
Players.
Other humans… who were also part of this system.
And judging by their tone, they weren't here to make friends.
Luna slipped from the bed, silent as breath, knife already in her hand.
The system didn't warn her.
But her instincts did.
Because in this world, the dead weren't always the most dangerous monsters.
Sometimes… it was the living.