They were just about to leave.

Hands hovered over the door. Fingers brushed against cracked metal, flaking paint biting into skin. Bodies leaned forward as one, nerves tightening in anticipation of the outside world—the smoke-choked air, the silence that never stayed silent, the things that waited beyond broken concrete and shadowed streets.

“Wait.”

Johnny’s voice was quiet.

It didn’t need to be louder.

The word cut cleanly through the moment, sharp as a blade.

Everyone froze.

He raised one hand, palm open—not a plea, not a request. A command.

His eyes sharpened, sweeping over them with measured intensity.

“Before we go any further.”

They turned back toward him.

Johnny stood in the center of the hallway, posture steady, shoulders squared. Dust clung to the air, caught in weak light filtering through cracked windows. His gaze moved from face to face—not judging, not doubting—but weighing.

“I need to know what everyone can do.”

The words landed heavier than gunfire ever could.

Chisato blinked, one foot still lifted toward the door. After a beat, she set it down awkwardly.

“Like…” She tilted her head, forcing a small laugh that didn’t quite stick. “…hobbies?”

Johnny didn’t smile. Not even a flicker.

“Skills. Strengths. Weaknesses.” His voice was calm, unyielding. “Out there, that knowledge keeps people alive.”

The joking air drained from the hallway.

He stepped aside, deliberately positioning himself between them and the exit.

“We’re not moving until I know.”

Silence followed—thick, uneasy.

Then Chisato lifted her hand halfway, fingers wiggling uncertainly, like she was testing whether it was safe to speak.

“Okay, okay,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice. “I’ll go first.”

She shifted her weight, rubbing the back of her neck, suddenly very aware of herself.

“So… I’m not great at hand-to-hand combat.”

Takina glanced at her, expression unreadable.

“You panic when someone gets too close.”

Chisato spun toward her instantly. “I do not panic.”

Her hands flew up, gesturing wildly.

“I strategically freak out.”

Johnny waited, unmoved.

Chisato exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly.

“But—I know machines. Vehicles. Engines.” Her eyes brightened just a little, confidence slipping back in. “If it moves or breaks, I can probably fix it.”

She straightened.

“And I’m excellent at shooting.”

A pause.

“…If we had guns.”

Rokuro snorted quietly, arms crossing over his chest.

“Big if.”

Chisato pointed at him without missing a beat. “You’re just jealous.”

Johnny gave a small nod, storing it away.

“Noted.”

Takina stepped forward next. Her movements were precise, controlled. Hands clasped behind her back, posture immaculate.

“I’m good at shooting as well,” she said evenly. “Slightly below Chisato.”

Chisato’s eyes widened. “Slightly?!”

Takina flicked her a brief glance.

“By measurable accuracy.”

Chisato crossed her arms, cheeks puffing out. “Rude.”

Takina continued seamlessly.

“I stay calm under pressure. I don’t freeze.”

Johnny met her gaze. There was approval there—quiet, unmistakable.

“That’s important.”

Rokuro leaned back against the wall, grinning as if tension were something he could shrug off.

“Guess that’s my cue.”

He rolled his shoulders, joints cracking.

“Hand-to-hand combat. I can take hits, give them back, and keep moving.” He flexed an arm theatrically. “Dependable in a fight.”

Shimon spoke immediately, eyes narrowing.

“You’re reckless.”

Rokuro laughed, unfazed. “Shut up.”

Johnny lifted one finger.

He didn’t raise his voice.

That was enough.

“Enough.”

Shimon straightened instantly.

“My turn.”

He hesitated—just a fraction. His eyes dropped briefly before he continued.

“I’m… not especially skilled in combat.”

Chisato tilted her head, studying him.

“You look scary though.”

Shimon glanced at her. “That’s not a skill.”

Rokuro smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Shimon ignored him, gaze fixed on Johnny.

“But I can read situations. Keep people calm. Follow orders precisely.”

Johnny nodded slowly.

“That’s more valuable than you think.”

All eyes turned to Aria.

She stiffened, shoulders curling inward.

“…I’m not good at anything,” she whispered.

The words hit harder than expected.

Her fingers disappeared into her sleeves, knuckles white.

“I can’t fight. I can’t shoot. I panic easily. I just…” Her voice trembled. “I slow everyone down.”

Chisato stepped forward immediately.

“Hey.”

Takina frowned, lips pressing thin.
Johnny shook his head gently.

“That’s not true.”

Aria looked up, startled.

“You’re observant,” Johnny continued, voice softer now. “You notice things others miss.”

He paused.

“And you keep people human.”

Her eyes shimmered. She swallowed hard and nodded faintly.

Shu slowly raised his hand, as if afraid someone might swat it back down. His fingers trembled, knuckles pale, and his shoulders hunched in on themselves.

“I… I can cook,” he said quietly

The silence that followed lasted only a second.

Rokuro blinked once. Then twice. “You… what?” he said, as if he’d misheard something incredibly important.

Chisato sucked in a sharp breath, eyes lighting up with sudden hope.

“Wait—actually cook?” she asked, leaning forward. “Like, real food? Not ‘throw-it-in-a-pan-and-pray’ cooking?”

Takina’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction, but in Takina-terms, it was a full-blown shock. Her gaze sharpened, assessing him.

“Properly?” she asked, tone calm but clearly skeptical.

Shimon turned fully toward Shu now, head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly.

“…You?”

Shu shrank under the attention but forced himself to continue.

“And,” he added quickly, voice steadier now, “I have good reflexes. I don’t freeze.”

Johnny smiled—small, proud.

“That matters.”

Finally, Johnny spoke of himself.

“I know close combat,” he said evenly. “Fast strikes. Efficient movement.”

His eyes were steady, unshaken.

“My reflexes and speed are my strengths.”

He looked at each of them.

“And my job is to make sure we all survive.”

Silence followed.

Then Rokuro clapped once.

“Well,” he said with a crooked grin, “that was uplifting.”

Shimon sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Focus.”

Johnny turned toward the stairs.

“Alright. Let's move.”

They descended slowly.

Each step was careful. Measured. Every sound felt too loud. Breathing was controlled. Hands hovered near anything that could become a weapon.

Rokuro leaned toward Shimon, whispering with a grin.

“If a zombie jumps out, I’m pushing you.”

Shimon replied without looking at him.

“If you do, I won’t save you.”

Rokuro grinned wider. “Deal.”

Despite everything, a few quiet smiles appeared.

And together, they stepped into danger—
armed not with weapons, but with trust.

...

They moved out slowly.

Not running.

Not rushing.

Each step was deliberate—measured against the sound it made, weighed before it touched the ground. Shoes scraped lightly against broken asphalt. Pebbles shifted. Somewhere far away, metal creaked as the wind passed through hollowed buildings.

Every one of them carried a small steel rod, cold and rough against their palms. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. But it was real, and right now that mattered.

Johnny walked at the front.

He carried two rods, one in each hand, his grip firm but relaxed, wrists loose, ready. His head moved constantly—windows, rooftops, alley mouths, reflections in shattered glass. He watched shadows more than light, knowing how easily death hid there.

The world outside was ruined.

Buildings stood like corpses, walls blackened by fire, windows blown out into empty eye sockets that stared blindly at the street. Some leaned at sick angles, their foundations weakened, as if they might collapse with a tired sigh.

Roads were split open with long, jagged cracks, asphalt peeled back like torn skin. Burned cars littered the street—frames warped, tires melted into the pavement, doors hanging open as if their owners had fled mid-scream.

The air tasted of ash and rust.

Shu swallowed hard, shoulders hunched as his fingers tightened around his rod.

“It’s… so quiet,” he whispered, his voice thin, like he was afraid the sound alone might summon something.

Aria nodded, eyes darting from storefront to storefront, breath shallow.

“Too quiet,” she murmured, unease coiling tight in her chest.

Chisato scanned the ruins, her usual brightness dulled. The devastation seemed to press down on her, stealing words before she could joke them away.

“Wow…” she muttered, forcing a weak smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s like the world rage-quit.”

Takina leaned toward her instantly, voice low and sharp.

“Lower your voice.”

Chisato winced and whispered dramatically, hands raised.

“Sorry, sorry. Whisper mode activated.”

Rokuro nudged a burned-out car with the tip of his rod, curiosity flickering despite the tension.

“You think someone lived in this?” he asked quietly, peering through a blackened window.

Shimon shot him a sharp look. “Hands off. You touch it, it explodes. That’s how this always goes.”

“I barely touched it.”

“You don’t know what noise it’ll make.”

Rokuro lifted both hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Mr. Discipline.”

Johnny lifted a fist.

They froze instantly.

He crouched, eyes narrowing, every muscle taut as he listened.

Nothing.

No groans.

No dragging feet.

No wet, hungry breathing.

He straightened slowly. “Keep moving.”

They passed a collapsed apartment block, its entrance buried beneath concrete slabs and twisted metal. Near the rubble lay a single child’s shoe—half-burned, its laces fused together.

Aria’s chest tightened. She turned her face away before anyone could see.

Chisato swallowed, then tried again to lighten the air.

“Y’know… if this were a movie, this would be the part where something jumps out.”

Takina hissed sharply, “Chisato.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Quiet.”

Rokuro leaned toward Shimon, whispering, “She’s going to get us killed.”

Shimon didn’t look at him. “So will you if you don’t stop whispering.”

They walked on.

Shockingly—there were no zombies.

Not a single one.

Rokuro walked ahead at an unhurried pace, casually rolling his steel rod through his fingers, the metal giving off a soft, rhythmic clink with every turn.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Rokuro said, twirling the steel rod.

“Either the zombies finally learned manners… or they all clocked out early.”

Behind him, Shimon moved more cautiously.

His gaze never stopped moving—doorways, rooftops, alleys—searching for something that refused to show itself.

This isn’t right, he thought, unease crawling up his spine. Yesterday, they were everywhere. Screaming, running, tearing through the streets… and now?
Not a single groan.

He swallowed, tightening his grip as the silence pressed in on him.

“I don’t like this, it's too empty.” Shimon said quietly.

Shu’s breathing grew shallow, his eyes scanning every doorway, every shadowed corner.

“Is that… normal?” he asked, fear creeping into his voice.

Johnny shook his head. “No.”

Aria hugged herself tighter. “Then where are they?”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “Somewhere else.”

The supermarket came into view.
Its sign hung crookedly, one letter dangling by a wire, swaying gently in the smoky air. The glass doors were shattered, carts overturned, debris scattered across the parking lot like the remains of a hurried evacuation.

Johnny raised his hand again.

They stopped.

Rokuro’s steps slowed the moment the supermarket came into view. For a heartbeat, his face lit up—an honest, almost childlike grin spreading across his features. Rows of intact glass, the sign still hanging above the entrance… food. Supplies. A miracle.

“Jackpot,” he breathed, already imagining full shelves and a break from hunger.

Then he looked closer.

The grin drained from his face as if someone had flipped a switch. His shoulders stiffened. His breath caught halfway in, leaving his chest tight and unmoving. The air around him suddenly felt heavier, wrong.

Shimon noticed immediately.

He turned, frowning at Rokuro’s rigid posture.

“You good, or did the supermarket scare your last brain cell? Or should I start worrying you turned into a statue?”

Rokuro didn’t answer right away. Slowly—hesitantly—he glanced again, as if hoping his eyes had played a cruel trick on him. They hadn’t.

His hand lifted, fingers trembling just slightly.

“Umm…” His voice came out thinner than usual, humor nowhere to be found.

“Johnny… is that—” He swallowed hard.
“Is that considered… normal?”

Then Johnny followed his gaze.

Across the street—half-hidden behind a burned delivery truck—something moved.

It wasn’t like the others.

Its body was twisted at an unnatural angle, spine bent wrong, shoulders uneven. One arm dragged uselessly along the ground, fingers scraping asphalt with a slow, wet sound. Its skin was darker than the others—blistered, peeling away in thick patches that revealed raw flesh beneath.

Its mouth hung open too wide, jaw cracked, teeth broken and blackened.

And its eyes—

Not fully white.

Clouded with red streaks, as if something inside was still watching.

Rokuro swallowed hard, knuckles whitening around his rod.

“That thing’s…” His voice trembled. “…different.”

Johnny stepped forward slightly, stance widening, both rods raised just enough to be ready.

“Everyone stay back,” he ordered quietly.

Chisato’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“Uh… guys?” she whispered. “That’s not in the zombie handbook.”

Takina’s gaze never left the creature. Her voice was calm, but tight. “It’s… watching.”

The thing tilted its head.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And then—

It smiled.