Jeff had done it.
By the time his body vanished beneath the dark water of the dam, the virus had already begun its silent journey—drawn into the veins of the city, carried through pipes, reservoirs, and homes, unseen and unstoppable. By morning, the infection had taken root, and by the time the sun rose fully over the Republic, the first signs of collapse had already begun to spread.
At the military headquarters in the capital, a meeting was convened before dawn—urgent, incomplete, and tense. Not all had arrived, but enough. Enough to understand that something had gone terribly wrong.
Inside the situation room, rows of uniformed officers and a handful of civilian specialists sat facing a massive screen. No one spoke as the footage played.
On the display, a line of riot police stood shoulder to shoulder behind shields, forming a barrier across a wide city street in Taipei. Beyond them, chaos surged. Civilians ran in all directions, screaming, colliding, falling—while others, twisted by something unseen, lunged forward with unnatural aggression, tackling, biting, tearing.
At first glance, it resembled a riot.
Then the first officer went down.
The line broke in seconds. The infected did not hesitate, did not retreat, did not fear pain. They climbed over shields, dragged officers to the ground, tore through formations that should have held. Batons struck. Water cannons fired. None of it mattered.
The cameraman, positioned atop a news vehicle behind the police line, began to shout—his voice shaking as he stumbled backward. The image jolted violently, the frame tilting as he tried to escape. Then he fell.
The camera hit the ground.
For a moment, it pointed upward.
And there—filling the frame—was a face.
Still human.
Almost.
Eyes bloodshot, jaw trembling, saliva hanging in strands from clenched teeth. It leaned closer, breathing hard, as if something inside it struggled to remember what it was.
Then it opened its mouth.
The footage cut.
Silence filled the room.
No one moved.
Then, at last, the screen froze on that final image—the infected man hovering over the fallen cameraman, the moment before violence.
A woman stepped forward.
Her uniform was immaculate, her posture straight, her voice steady despite the tension that gripped the room.
"Gentlemen," she said, gesturing toward the screen, "this footage was recorded less than one hour ago in Taipei City. At approximately 02:40, an unidentified biological agent was introduced into the municipal water supply at the primary dam."
She paused briefly, letting the weight of that settle.
"Initial reports indicate that the individual responsible was a foreign male—Caucasian, approximately mid-twenties, speaking English. He was shot on site, but his body fell into the reservoir and has not been recovered."
A low murmur spread through the room.
"We currently assess this as a coordinated biological attack," she continued. "Given the method of delivery and the subject's behavior, external involvement is highly likely. At this time, the leading assumption is that this individual was acting under the direction of a foreign government—most likely the United States."
That was enough.
"What nonsense."
The voice came from the far end of the table.
An older man—stern, composed, his uniform marked with rank and decades of service—leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes fixed on the frozen image.
"This is hysteria," he said flatly. "Mass panic, riots, maybe some kind of drug contamination. But this?" He gestured toward the screen. "You expect me to believe this is real?"
No one answered immediately.
Then another voice spoke—calm, almost amused.
"Reality has a habit of imitating fiction, General."
A man in a white coat stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. His hair, streaked with gray, framed a face that seemed more interested than concerned.
"Professor He Ke Yin," the general said coldly, "this is not a lecture hall."
"No," the scientist replied lightly, eyes still on the screen. "It's far more interesting."
He stepped closer to the display, studying the frozen image.
"Rapid aggression, loss of higher cognition, compulsive feeding behavior… This resembles a form of viral neurological override. If transmission occurs through bodily fluids, then what we are seeing—" he gestured toward the riot footage, "—is only the beginning."
The room grew quieter.
"If the water supply is compromised," he continued, "then infection vectors are already widespread. Containment will become exponentially more difficult with each passing hour."
The general's expression darkened.
"Then we contain it," he said. "Seal the city. Deploy the military. End it before it spreads."
A younger officer leaned forward slightly. "Quarantine protocols are already being prepared, sir. We can lock down all major transport routes within the hour."
"Good."
The scientist smiled faintly.
"Or," he said, almost idly, "we could take advantage of the situation."
That drew attention.
"What did you say?" the general asked, his tone sharpening.
He Ke Yin adjusted his glasses again, unfazed.
"This virus—whatever it is—has capabilities beyond anything we currently possess. Adaptive aggression, rapid behavioral override, possible mutation… If we could isolate it, study it…" His voice lowered slightly. "Weaponize it."
The room paused, and then—
"Absolutely not."
The general's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"You are suggesting we experiment with an uncontrolled biological agent during an active outbreak?"
"I am suggesting," the scientist replied calmly, "that opportunities like this do not come twice."
Another officer spoke, hesitant. "There are… strategic implications. If such a pathogen could be controlled—"
"Controlled?" the general snapped. "Look at the screen."
No one spoke after that.
For a moment, only the frozen image remained.
Then the woman—Mei-ling—quietly changed the feed.
The screen flickered.
Now it showed a live aerial broadcast.
Taipei was burning.
Smoke rose in thick columns between buildings. Streets were flooded with movement—some fleeing, others chasing. Vehicles lay abandoned, overturned. Fires spread unchecked.
And on one rooftop—
Something else moved.
A massive, distorted figure—compact yet monstrously dense—stood roaring at the sky, hurling debris at a circling helicopter. Its movements were too fast, too violent, too… wrong.
Even the general went still.
"…What is that?" someone whispered.
The scientist's eyes lit up.
"…Fascinating."
Mei-ling spoke again, quieter now.
"This entity was first reported approximately twenty minutes ago near the dam perimeter. It is believed to be connected to the initial incident."
Silence followed.
Then the general stood.
"That's enough."
His voice was firm now. Final.
"This is not a research opportunity. This is a national emergency."
He adjusted his cap, already turning toward the exit.
"We will deploy full military force. Taipei will be quarantined immediately. No one in. No one out. If necessary—" he paused briefly, "—we escalate."
The implication hung in the air.
The scientist watched him go, a faint, almost disappointed smile touching his lips.
"…Such a waste," he murmured.
At the doorway, the general stopped only long enough to glance back.
"If you want to help, Professor," he said, "then find me a way to stop this."
Then he left.
The room remained, heavy with silence and the quiet hum of machinery. On the screen, the creature roared again, its distorted frame silhouetted against the burning skyline, and below it the city continued to unravel, block by block, street by street, as though something invisible were pulling the threads loose from the fabric of order. And somewhere beneath it all, carried through water and blood and fear, the infection continued to spread.
Outside the capital, the Republic's response unfolded with ruthless efficiency. Orders moved faster than understanding, and within the hour the military began to seal the city. Attack helicopters lifted from distant airfields, their rotors cutting through the morning air as they turned toward Taipei. Armored vehicles rolled out in long columns from barracks and bases, engines rumbling as soldiers loaded in with rifles, shields, and hastily issued orders. Tanks followed, heavy and deliberate, their tracks grinding against the asphalt as they took position along the outer districts. Above it all, fighter jets screamed across the sky in sharp arcs, scanning the chaos below for targets they could not yet define, searching for an enemy that did not behave like one.
And while the Republic prepared for war, something else moved quietly through the ruins of the city.
By mid-morning, as the pale light of day crept toward noon, a soaked and half-living figure dragged itself from the riverbank, water dripping steadily from its clothes, its body moving with a strange, uncertain rhythm. He did not remember the fall, nor the bullets, nor the tearing force of water that had broken him apart and carried him through darkness and pressure and something far worse than either. What remained of those moments existed only as fragments—flashes without meaning, pain without context, a distant sensation of being undone and remade in ways his mind refused to process.
Jeff Dracula climbed from the river like a man waking from a dream he could not quite recall.
His steps were unsteady at first, his breathing shallow, his eyes unfocused as he wandered forward into the city. Around him, the world had already changed. Buildings were shuttered, doors barricaded, windows covered with whatever materials people could find in desperation. The streets were no longer streets but battlegrounds of survival, scattered with debris, abandoned vehicles, and the remnants of lives interrupted mid-motion.
Not far from the river, a supermarket had become a fortress. Survivors inside pushed against the glass doors while outside a mass of infected bodies clawed and slammed themselves forward, their movements frantic, relentless, their mouths opening and closing in silent hunger. The glass cracked, bent, threatened to give.
Jeff walked past it.
No one noticed him.
Not the survivors inside, too consumed by fear to see anything beyond the pressing horde. Not the infected outside, whose attention passed over him as though he were nothing at all—no scent, no presence, no reason to stop. They parted around him without thought, their hands brushing past his sleeves without gripping, their eyes sliding over him without recognition.
He kept walking.
Further in, the slums had become something harsher. The local gangs, driven not by heroism but by necessity, had organized themselves into crude defense lines. Baseball bats, pipes, knives, anything that could be swung or stabbed was clutched in white-knuckled hands as they held narrow alleys and doorways, shouting over one another, striking down any infected that stumbled too close. A nightclub had turned into a choke point, its neon lights flickering weakly as bodies pressed into its corridors. Inside, men fought with desperate ferocity, bashing skulls, driving blades forward again and again as the infected climbed over each other in their attempt to reach the living.
Jeff passed that too.
No one stopped him.
No one even looked at him twice.
He moved through it all like a ghost that had forgotten it was dead.
By the time the sun climbed higher, approaching midday, Jeff had somehow reached his building. He did not remember unlocking the door, nor climbing the stairs, nor even entering his room. These actions occurred the way breathing did—automatic, unconscious, as though some deeper instinct guided him back to the only place he had ever truly belonged.
His room.
The curtains were drawn, sealing out the harsh daylight. The air was stale, familiar, unchanged. At some point—he could not say when—he had washed himself, changed into black sweatpants, a dark hoodie, mismatched socks that bore the faded emblem of something he no longer cared to remember. A bag of chips lay open beside him, already half-eaten.
And the computer was on.
Jeff sat before it, mouse in hand, eyes fixed on the screen.
Concord Online: Age of Madness.
His stream, somehow, had drawn more viewers than usual. Not many—never many—but more than he was used to. The chat flickered with messages, questions stacking one over another.
What's happening in the city?
Are you in Taipei?
Dude there are people dying outside—
Is this real?
Jeff frowned.
"…Why are there so many questions?" he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.
Outside, distant gunfire echoed. Somewhere closer, something exploded, the sound rolling through the city in a low, heavy wave. Shouting followed—orders, screams, things breaking.
Jeff's annoyance snapped.
"Why are you idiots talking about real life?!" he barked at the screen, his voice rising with genuine frustration. "Focus on the game! This is Concord—this is important!"
The chat did not obey.
If anything, it only got worse.
Jeff stared at it for a second, offended—truly offended—before his expression hardened.
"Yeah… no."
He clicked.
The stream died instantly.
No goodbye. No explanation.
Just gone.
He shoved the headphones over his ears and cranked the volume until the world outside dissolved completely, until the distant chaos of gunfire and screaming was replaced by the crisp, satisfying audio of blades, footsteps, and ambient forest noise.
Silence—controlled, curated, perfect.
Better.
Much better.
Jeff leaned forward, posture tightening, eyes narrowing as his character—the tall, pale emo elf rogue—slipped between the shadowed trees of Mirkwood. The forest stretched out in muted greens and blacks, the canopy thick enough to choke out the light, and ahead, as if placed there just for him, a patrol of gnome warriors marched in loose formation.
Short.
Stocky.
Barely reaching his character's chest.
Jeff smiled faintly.
"Alright… let's go."
He moved.
Not rushed—never rushed. His elf glided through the undergrowth like a whisper, steps silent, cloak blending into shadow. The gnomes chattered among themselves in their shrill, grating voices, completely unaware.
The first one never even saw him.
Jeff clicked.
The blade slid cleanly across its throat—too clean—and for a split second nothing happened. Then the gnome's head jerked back, its mouth opening in a wet, choking gasp as dark blood sprayed in a thin arc across the leaves. Its tiny hands clawed at its neck, legs kicking uselessly as it collapsed, twitching.
Jeff didn't stop.
The second gnome turned, eyes widening—too slow.
Another click.
The dagger drove straight up under its chin, punching through the soft underside of its skull with a dull, sickening crack. Its body lifted slightly off the ground from the force before dropping limp, its helmet rolling away as something thick and red followed.
Jeff leaned in closer.
Faster now.
The rhythm took over.
A third gnome tried to shout—too late.
The elf moved behind it in a blur, blade flashing again and again, short, brutal stabs that punched into its back, its sides, its neck. Each hit drove it forward like a broken toy until it collapsed face-first into the dirt, limbs twitching.
"See?" Jeff muttered, clicking rapidly. "This is what you get for walking around in groups like idiots."
Another gnome charged him, screaming something high-pitched and furious.
Jeff didn't dodge.
He stepped forward.
The height difference made it almost laughable.
The elf's blade came down in a heavy arc, splitting the gnome from shoulder to chest, the impact staggering its entire body as it folded inward, armor cracking, blood spilling thick and dark onto the forest floor.
Jeff grinned slightly.
"Too short," he said under his breath.
More of them now.
They rushed him together—tiny armored bodies piling forward in a desperate swarm, stabbing upward with short spears, trying to reach something far above them.
Jeff's fingers moved faster.
The elf danced.
Blades cut downward, sideways, through limbs and faces and armor that might as well have been paper. One gnome lost an arm entirely, the stump spraying as it stumbled in confusion before being kicked aside. Another had its helmet split open, something inside spilling out as it dropped without a sound.
The forest floor became a mess of broken, twitching bodies.
Small bodies.
Stacking.
Jeff bit lightly against his thumb, eyes locked, breathing steady.
"Damn gnomes…" he muttered. "Why do they always react so fast when I stab their friends?"
Another click.
Another gnome dropped—this one lifted slightly off its feet as the blade drove clean through its chest and pinned it briefly against a tree before sliding free, leaving it to collapse in a crumpled heap.
"Useless…" Jeff murmured.
Click.
"But still annoying."
The last one tried to run.
It didn't make it far.
The elf caught up in two steps and cut its legs out from under it, then finished it with a quick, downward thrust that silenced its shrieking instantly.
And just like that—
Silence returned to the forest.
Jeff exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing as the tension drained from him.
Clean.
Efficient.
Perfect.
And like that, Jeff stayed playing the entire day.
Outside, the world continued to burn.
Thanks to the internet—still miraculously functioning—the disaster spread far beyond the city within hours. Footage leaked, reports clashed, speculation exploded. The authorities tried to contain it, tried to shape the narrative, but it was already too late. The fires rising from the capital could be seen for kilometers, even from distant coastlines, and the moment images of the chaos reached the wider world, panic followed.
The Republic—an island nation whose economy rested heavily upon its technological dominance—felt the impact immediately. Markets trembled, then dropped. Supply chains froze. Trading halted as uncertainty spread faster than any virus.
By the time the day turned, headlines had already taken over every major outlet.
"Virus Leak or Coordinated Attack?"
"Real-Life Zombies Reported in Capital"
"City Under Siege—Doomsday Scenario Unfolds"
"Divine Punishment or Man-Made Disaster?"
The world watched.
And Jeff kept playing.
But as night fell, something changed.
A distant, thunderous explosion rolled across the city—then another, heavier, deeper. The ground itself seemed to shudder faintly beneath it.
Two of the city's dams gave way.
Water surged down from the mountains in unstoppable waves, flooding streets, smashing through barriers, swallowing the lower districts whole. Buildings groaned and cracked as the torrent forced its way through them, dragging everything with it—cars, debris, bodies, living and dead alike—toward the sea.
And then came absolute, darkness. Jeff's screen flickered and then died.
"…Huh?"
For a second, he just stared.
Then it hit him.
"No—no, no, no—"
The power was gone.
And right as he had been seconds away from kidnapping the gnome queen.
Jeff shot to his feet, rage exploding out of him.
"DAMN HUMANS!" he roared, voice echoing in the dark room. "How could you do this to me?! I'll kill you—I swear I'll kill you! This is my pledge for cutting my internet!"
He stood there, breathing hard.
Then something shifted within him, fragments of memories came back. He rendered the Dam, getting shot and falling into the water.
Jeff blinked.
"…Oh, yeah I think that did actually happen."
Slowly, his expression changed.
"…Wait."
He looked down at the empty bag of chips in his hand.
"I… summoned this, didn't I?"
The realization crept in, slow and uncomfortable.
"…Did I actually…"
He didn't finish the thought.
Instead, a different concern took over.
"…What are they doing out there?"
Curiosity.
For once.
Jeff pulled off his headset, shoved his feet into cheap sneakers, and rushed out of his apartment, climbing up to the rooftop.
The moment he stepped outside—
He saw it.
The city was dark.
Not quiet—never quiet—but dark, illuminated only by fires that burned across entire districts. Smoke rose in thick columns, turning the night into something suffocating and heavy.
Above, attack helicopters circled, their guns flashing as they fired down into the streets and buildings. Tracer rounds cut through the darkness, striking moving shapes below, tearing holes into the city. Fighter jets roared overhead, launching missiles toward key structures, explosions blooming across the skyline in bursts of fire and debris.
Jeff stepped closer to the edge.
Down below, there was movement along the flooded streets.
Zombies—scattered now, erratic—ran around, their bodies jerking unnaturally as they searched, for the living, Jeff guessed.
And beyond that, was lights. Not from the city, but from outside it.
Jeff narrowed his eyes.
"…Oh."
Around the entire city, a perimeter had been established.
Walls—temporary, but massive—had been erected in record time. Steel gates, reinforced barriers, layered defenses sealed every major road and access point. Soldiers stood in lines beyond them, vehicles positioned strategically, floodlights cutting across the darkness.
Even further out, on the mountain slopes what looked like artillery was being set up.
Waiting for order's to rain down fire upon the city.
Jeff clicked his tongue.
"…Damn."
It had happened fast, like real fast, faster than he expected.
Leaving now would not be easy, maybe impossible.
Anyone trying to get out would be stopped, tested, contained—
Or killed.
Jeff watched it all for a moment, then exhaled softly, irritation creeping back into his voice.
"…Damn those guys acted fast."
But, thinking back on it he remembered something. He hadn't seen it, but he had sort of felt it then.
Last night, after Jeff poured the virus into the water supply and fell in it, the first batch of infected had appeared approximately ten minutes later. At that time, when he was floating underwater he had received nothing—no notification, no reward, no indication that anything had even happened. It made sense in a strange, detached way. Those people had simply collapsed, choking as the virus took hold in their bodies. There had been no time for fear, no time for understanding, and therefore no despair.
But the second wave had been different.
By then, the infection had spread just enough for the living to witness it. People had seen others turn. They had seen family members collapse, convulse, and rise again with something hollow and wrong behind their eyes. They had seen teeth sink into flesh that they once loved. They had heard the screams, the confusion, the desperate attempts to fight back against something that could not be reasoned with.
It was only then that the Despair had come like a flood.
Jeff had felt it surge into him like a tide breaking through a dam—thick, overwhelming, almost intoxicating. The points of so much despair had poured into his body all at once, and he had somehow survived because of it.
He could only guess why, and it was probably that feeling of watching someone you loved become something else entirely, and then being forced to face it—or worse, being devoured by it. Jeff didn't know that feeling fully, just that his sister had left him and that sucked.
"System."
Jeff called out in his mind, his voice quieter now, steadier, as though he were slowly becoming accustomed to this strange new reality.
"Host has chosen the Blacklight Virus world annihilation method. The current number of elementary infected is 43,462. There is one second-level infected designated: Little Hunter. Current world annihilation progress: 29%."
Jeff blinked.
"…Wait, why are there so few infected? Don't people drink water anymore, even when showering?"
And hadn't the number gone down.
By one percent.
He frowned slightly, genuinely confused. "What the hell? How does it go down? Did someone… fix something?" He scratched his head, trying to process it in his own way. "What, did Greenpeace show up or something? Plant some trees? Save a whale? That counts as anti-destruction or what?"
He clicked his tongue, annoyed.
"Man… they're really out here sabotaging me."
Still, the message was clear enough. Destroying the world wasn't as simple as flipping a switch. Even with a virus spreading through an entire city, even with chaos everywhere, there were still forces working against it—people resisting, systems reacting, governments mobilizing.
Which meant—
More work.
Jeff exhaled slowly, leaning back for a moment before his expression shifted again, becoming more focused, more practical in that oddly shallow way he thought through things.
"Alright… priority."
He glanced toward the city beyond his walls, as if he could see through them.
"I need to get out of here."
The military had already surrounded the place. He had seen it himself—walls, soldiers, artillery, helicopters. If they caught him, it wasn't going to be a misunderstanding. They weren't going to sit him down and ask politely what had happened.
They would shoot him.
Or worse.
"…Yeah, no," Jeff muttered. "Not dealing with that."
He needed distance. Needed to leave before things tightened further. Before they started sweeping buildings, checking survivors, testing people.
Before someone figured it out.
Still, one thought lingered.
"…Where'd that little guy go?"
Little Hunter.
The dwarf.
Jeff frowned slightly, trying to recall the chaos of the night before. The thing had taken a ridiculous amount of gunfire—bullets tearing into it, explosions going off around it—and yet it had kept moving. Still, even something like that had limits… probably.
"…He looked kinda messed up," Jeff muttered. "But he's probably fine. Big guy energy."
And honestly?
Jeff didn't care that much.
Because something else had his full attention.
"Despair Value: 66,666."
He stared at the number.
"…Oh."
That was—
A lot.
A ridiculous amount.
Over sixty thousand people, all contributing to this single pool of power. All that fear, all that suffering, all that hopelessness—it had been converted into something he could use.
Jeff couldn't help it.
He laughed.
"Okay… that's kinda insane."
For a brief moment, his thoughts drifted in the most predictable direction possible.
"…Can I convert this to money?"
He tilted his head slightly, considering it.
"Like… straight cash. That'd be nice. Buy a car, maybe. Something decent. Not like… trash-tier."
The idea lingered for a second longer than it should have.
Then faded.
Jeff exhaled.
"Nah…"
That wasn't the move.
Not anymore.
Things had changed.
"Nerds evolve," he muttered, nodding to himself as if confirming something profound. "That's just how it is."
This city—this ruined, burning place—was now something else entirely.
His resource, a sort of starting point towards something.
If he was going to survive—if he was going to keep going—then he needed to use what he had properly. Enhancements. Abilities. Something that made him less… killable.
Because right now? He was still very killable. And that was a problem.
Still, something interrupted his thoughts.
A feeling, low at first. Then sharper, it was his worst enemy, hunger.
Jeff's hand moved to his stomach instinctively as it tightened, the sensation sudden and insistent. The chips he had eaten earlier were gone, meaningless, barely even remembered by his body. The water he had drunk had been… wrong. Bitter. Unpleasant.
It hadn't helped.
Now the hunger pressed harder.
Demanding.
"…Man…"
Jeff frowned.
"I need food."
The System could provide it—that much he knew—but something about that felt off. Artificial. Unnecessary. There was real food out there. Actual food.
Fresh.
And for some reason—
That mattered.
Jeff stood slowly, his body moving with a strange, quiet tension as he stepped away from the computer. The room felt different now. Not just empty—but wrong.
Then he noticed it, a smell of blood in the air, a really heavy smell, not nice at all.
"…Oh."
Jeff followed it without thinking, his feet carrying him out of the apartment and down the stairwell. The building was quiet now, unnaturally so, the kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful but abandoned.
Something had happened here.
He reached a door on one of the lower floors—broken inward, splintered at the frame—and paused.
The smell was strongest here.
"…Yeah."
He stepped inside.
"Gah… mmm…"
The sound hit him first, the rhythmic wet sound of something being chewed, torn and munched on.
Jeff crouched slightly, peering into the kitchen.
Two bodies lay on the floor.
Or what remained of them.
It was difficult to tell who they had been. Male, female—it didn't matter anymore. Flesh had been torn apart, clothing soaked through, bones exposed where they shouldn't be, organs scattered across the tiles like something spilled and forgotten.
And between them was a small figure of what looked like a girl. Maybe seven, maybe eight years old.
She sat there quietly, hunched over, her small hands clutching pieces of torn flesh as she brought them to her mouth again and again, chewing with mechanical persistence. Her arms trembled slightly with each movement, her pale skin smeared with blood, her face almost unrecognizable beneath it.
Jeff watched her.
"…Huh."
He stepped closer.
Carefully.
"She's still a good child," he said, as if arriving at some kind of conclusion, reaching out to gently touch her forehead.
Her skin was cold, and her eyes, white like snow.
Her mouth hung slightly open, bits of flesh still caught between her teeth as she paused, not in awareness, but in something like a momentary interruption.
"Are your mommy and daddy delicious?" Jeff asked casually, his tone almost conversational.
He didn't even realize what he was saying.
For a brief second, something twisted in his stomach—not hunger, not quite disgust, but something close to it.
He swallowed.
"…Yeah, no."
This was—
Not normal.
Even for him.
Still, his thoughts moved in their usual strange direction.
"…Maybe I can use her," he muttered under his breath. "Like… bodyguard or something. Small, but aggressive."
It made sense.
In a very Jeff kind of way.
The likely sequence was obvious enough. She had been infected first. Turned quickly. Her parents had woken up too late—confused, unprepared—and by the time they understood what was happening, it had already been over.
Now half of them were, gone. Lost inside her.
Jeff exhaled slowly.
"…That's rough."
The girl didn't respond.
She couldn't, because clearly whatever she had been was gone.
"I'm a White guy with no money, ok," Jeff added after a moment, sniffing slightly as the smell hit him again. "So you're probably not interested in me, right?"
Silence.
Only the quiet sound of chewing resumed.
Jeff straightened slightly, his expression flattening.
"…Yeah."
No point.
As interesting as the situation was, even Jeff had limits—vague, inconsistent, but present. This wasn't something he could really engage with.
"Making friends with corpses…" he muttered. "…that's a bit too far."
He turned slightly, then froze as something unfamiliar reached him through the silence of the building. It wasn't the distant chaos of the city, nor the erratic, mindless noises of the infected, but something far more structured—measured footsteps, steady and controlled, echoing faintly up through the stairwell.
"…Huh?"
Jeff tilted his head, listening more carefully now, and quickly realized what it was. These weren't zombies. The rhythm was wrong, too consistent, too deliberate. These were living people.
His expression shifted at once.
"…Not zombies."
That realization alone was enough to make his body tense in a way it hadn't for the infected. Slowly, instinctively, he moved toward the doorway of the kitchen, careful without fully understanding why. He leaned just enough to look past the broken doorframe, his gaze settling on the stairwell beyond where the sound was coming from.
There were three of them.
Two men and a girl.
The girl stood slightly behind the others, her posture tight, her movements hesitant. She looked young—no more than seventeen—and her school uniform was still on, though wrinkled and dirtied, as if she had been running for some time. A backpack hung from her shoulders, clutched close like something important, something she wasn't willing to lose even now.
Jeff instinctively covered his mouth, his thoughts immediately going in a completely different direction than they should have.
"…Oh."
For a brief moment, the idea of asking for her number surfaced, almost out of habit—but it died just as quickly when reality caught up.
"…Right. No phone."
A small, genuine disappointment flickered across his face before his attention shifted to the man at the front.
And just like that, everything changed.
The man was tall, alert, and far too composed for someone in this situation. More importantly, he was holding an assault rifle, his grip steady, his posture ready. This wasn't someone panicking or blindly running. This was someone who had already fought, already survived, and was fully prepared to do it again.
Jeff's expression tightened.
That was a problem.
A very big problem.
He didn't need to overthink it. If that man pulled the trigger, even once, it was over. Jeff had no illusions about that. He wasn't bulletproof, wasn't fast, wasn't anything close to capable of handling something like that head-on.
And yet—
His gaze drifted again.
Back to the girl.
She looked terrified, her face pale, her breathing uneven, every step cautious as if she expected something to jump out at her at any moment. The backpack shifted slightly as she moved, and Jeff couldn't help but wonder what was inside.
Food, maybe.
Something useful.
Something real.
The hunger in his stomach twisted sharply at the thought, far stronger now than it had been before, pulling at his attention in a way that was difficult to ignore.
Then, behind him, the soft, wet sound of chewing continued from the kitchen, steady and grotesque, a reminder of what was just out of sight.
Jeff blinked.
And then it hit him.
If they saw him here—if they saw him standing next to that thing, that girl, calmly existing in the same space without being attacked—then there was no way they would see him as anything normal. To them, he wouldn't be another survivor.
He would be something else.
Something dangerous.
Something that needed to be put down immediately.
"…Oh."
His face shifted into something close to alarm as the realization settled in properly. These weren't random people. They were armed, alert, and already on edge. They wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't question, wouldn't give him time to explain anything—even if he had something to say.
They would shoot first.
And Jeff would be done.
"System…" he muttered inwardly, his tone tightening in a way it rarely did, "you're actually my only hope right now."
His eyes flicked once more toward the stairwell as the footsteps grew closer.
"…Do something."
Then, more urgently, almost pleading now:
"Let me evolve into something useful here."