23

Chris was not someone who actively expressed his views, but over time, I could sense that he had his own unique perspectives on many issues.

I also sensed an underlying aversion to social interaction masked by his politeness and gentle demeanor.

Thus, I had to suppress my curiosity and refrain from probing too much whenever he chose not to speak.

It was rare for him to share his thoughts today.

Whether it was his approach in contacting us or leaving marks in the convenience store, Chris had been consistently sending out signals while ensuring his own safety.

By stepping out of the shadows, he sacrificed some of his advantage to give both parties more opportunities and choices. We didn't have to engage in a kill-or-be-killed game. Responding or not responding was not the point;

the critical aspect was that we had the chance to return to normal social interactions—engaging, probing, negotiating, and reaching consensus.

I stole a glance at him. His eyes were closed as he rested.

I thought of the times he stood on the balcony gazing into the distance,

the afternoons he spent reading, and the moments he sat by the table listening to Anne and me bicker.

What went through his mind during those times?

He wasn't thinking because I asked; his thoughts had never stopped.

Time passed, and the sky finally brightened.

At 7:55 a.m., we smoothly entered Building 51 through the garage.

We had five minutes before our scheduled time, so Chris and I started to ascend the stairs.

After successfully meeting up with Anne, we headed to the platform between the 9th and 10th floors.

After confirming there were no traces of someone hiding there, we ruled out that location and moved forward.

At 8 a.m. sharp, Anne opened the stairwell's fire door as planned and then turned to head downstairs.

We guessed that he wouldn't be directly monitoring from 903 but would instead rely on the sound of the door to take action.

Chris and I held our breath behind the door.

Success or failure hinged on this moment.

Almost immediately, a figure darted out from the corridor.

It was the middle-aged man.

He moved swiftly, trying to follow Anne, but Chris was faster.

With the back of the axe, he knocked the man out.

I kicked away the weapon that had fallen by his side—a bloodstained entrenching tool, clearly tainted with more than just zombie blood.

Hearing the commotion, Anne quickly returned.

We took out the rope we had prepared and tightly bound the man.

Chris searched his pockets, finding two keys and a wallet.

The ID indicated his name was David Stone.

Dragging him downstairs, the friction on the steps quickly revived David.

He struggled against the ropes, "What's this? What do you want? My buddies are just upstairs. You better untie me now."

Anne smacked him on the back of the head with the shovel, and he quieted down.

Once he regained his composure, fear spread across David's face.

"Wait, listen to me, this is a misunderstanding! You must have made a mistake!"

He knew what we intended to do.

Faced with death, this clever executioner revealed his true nature.

"I can be your enforcer, help you scout... I'm definitely more useful than that scrawny guy!"

"You don't have to untie me, just give me a bit of food—no, just some water every day. I can do a lot for you! Don't kill me... please..."

He trembled, tears and snot mingling as he begged us to spare him.

It was hard to believe this pathetic man had slaughtered an entire neighborhood.

The one responsible for such atrocities turned out to be an ordinary citizen wielding a butcher's knife.

We ignored him.

After waiting a while longer, Chris finally came down. It seemed he had finished the cleanup.

"How was it?" Anne asked.

"I checked inside, everything's fine." Chris cut the wire on the door. As the fire door opened, the stairwell brightened.

"I'm going upstairs to check," I said, calling out.

Though I knew he deserved his fate, I didn't want to witness his death up close.

David's pockets contained two keys, one of which unlocked 501.

Entering the fifth-floor apartment, I saw it had a similar layout to mine.

The master bedroom had a bed, and the kitchen and second bedroom were filled with food supplies and tools.

There was no power generation equipment.

The bathtub had some water but was nearly empty. The unplugged fridge emitted a faint stench from its spoiled contents.

Walking through the hall, I opened the tightly shut balcony door to air out the place.

To my surprise, a stronger odor greeted me from outside.

The balcony was cluttered with junk and trash. In one corner, a white sheet covered something.

A gust of wind blew the sheet,

revealing a human ankle.

"Helen, don't look!" Anne hurriedly tried to stop me.

"It's okay, you get used to it after a while," I said, shutting the balcony door.

"David probably lived alone. This might be a captured survivor... There must have been a conflict between them. Chris said this person was strangled."

"No—" I handed Anne a photo from the TV cabinet.

The man in it looked about forty, wearing glasses and appearing scholarly.

"This is the real owner of 501."

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