The interview felt more like an interrogation.
Zane sat alone on a cold concrete step in the dim corridor of the apartment building. Harsh white lights overhead cast long shadows, and the hum of the AMF's scanning equipment echoed faintly in the background. Across from him stood the commanding officer—a man in his late thirties with graying temples, sharp eyes, and a tone that brokered no nonsense.
The man leaned forward, clipboard in hand, drilling Zane with question after question like a machine programmed for skepticism.
"Start from the beginning again. How did you first notice the infected individual?"
Zane put on his best mask of fear-tinged confusion. He kept his eyes slightly widened, voice trembling just enough, hands wringing in his lap.
"H-He banged on the door next to my apartment," Zane stammered. "I thought maybe he was drunk or something. Then I heard the sounds—knocking, slamming, and crying. He emerged from his house, he was coughing loudly as his skin melted. Then... He transformed and attacked me."
The officer scribbled notes, nodding without looking up. "Then what?"
"I shoved him—he hit the railing hard. I thought it'd knock him out, but he still tried to crawl toward me, even with blood everywhere. That's when I panicked… I just stomped. I didn't even think. I just wanted him to stop moving."
He added a choked sob for good measure and bowed his head as if ashamed.
Zane knew exactly how this game worked. Give them a story detailed enough to sound real, but leave room for emotion—people trusted you more when you looked a little broken.
The officer didn't blink. "You say you weren't bitten. Can you confirm no contact with bodily fluids? Blood? Saliva?"
"I—I tried to stay back," Zane replied, voice cracking. "I was terrified. I only touched him when he grabbed my ankle. I kicked him off, I swear."
Silence lingered as the officer looked at him with eyes that weighed more than words. Zane held his breath. Then, finally, the man's tone softened.
"You did good, kid," he said. "Panicking's natural. You reacted. You survived. That's more than most. I commend your courage for doing this, boy. You could have a bright future as an awakened. Or better yet, if you aren't lucky enough to awaken, you can join the AMF and become a soldier. We welcome all the aspiring people who want to defend the human world."
"R-Really?"
'Interesting. So they also do some scouting here and there to get the reckl- I mean, the 'courageous' people who are ready to risk their lives.'
"Yes. But, don't think about it now, you're still young. Finish your studies and then you can choose."
Zane kept his gaze low, nodding solemnly.
"Understood!"
Inside, he exhaled with satisfaction. Another performance delivered flawlessly.
Once the questioning ended, Zane was allowed to return to his floor. The AMF's sweeping operation continued for another hour. Their boots echoed through the stairwells and hallways as they scanned, probed, and inspected every dark corner and hidden crevice of the building.
Zane observed from a window down the hall. The way the AMF moved wasn't just professional—it was anxious. He could see it in the way their team leads double-checked results, or how their fingers gripped their weapons a bit too tightly. Fear clung to them like sweat beneath those sterile suits.
The infected man, as it turned out, had lived alone. No family close by. A quiet life, easily missed. In a sense, he lived the same life as Zane, alone, shut-in, and depressed. He didn't know anybody in the building.
'I wonder if this kind of lifestyle influences the mutation in any meaningful way. I still don't know how he even got infected yet, but it's a good thing to keep note of for the future, just in case.' He blinked slowly.
He'd seen enough to know the transformation wasn't just biological. It was something deeper. The mutation acted like a virus, yes, but it didn't kill—it rewrote. Bones shifted, eyes clouded, teeth lengthened. That wasn't illness. That was reprogramming.
"Scary," he whispered, eyes narrowing at the departing AMF convoy. "But fascinating."
When the vehicles finally drove off and the last of the officers gave the building the all-clear, a collective breath was released by the residents. Some cried. Some collapsed on their sofas. Others just stared at the door like it might burst open again. They all felt as if they had been through a long nightmare, and it was finally over.
"Thank god it's clear!"
"I thought I was about to get killed."
"Why the hell do we have mutants in our apartment complex?!"
Zane, meanwhile, climbed the final set of stairs to the upper floor.
The balcony up there was quiet, winds rustling gently through the railing bars. From that vantage point, he watched the AMF convoy shrink into the distance, headlights fading into the city's vast, concrete horizon.
"They carry too much on their shoulders," he muttered, eyes tracing the retreating vehicles. "A single mistake, and this whole place becomes a graveyard. I can't imagine the sheer pressure they have to work with, knowing everyone relies on them to keep the city safe and mutant-free."
He imagined how many lives the AMF had to gamble with every day. How many times they hesitated on the edge of pulling a trigger, knowing one misstep could doom hundreds. It wasn't bravery—they were just trained to act fast. To be efficient. They had to be.
In such a large city and dealing with a bacteria that could spread so quickly, there was basically no room for error, not even minor errors.
Zane turned and walked back inside.
He closed the apartment door quietly behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. Silence welcomed him like a blanket. For the first time since arriving in this unfamiliar future, he allowed himself to pause. No masks. No charades. Just stillness.
'A single day,' he thought. 'And already the weight of this world presses down harder than I expected.'
Zane moved to the small kitchen. The cabinets held a pitiful collection of ingredients, but it was enough to cobble together a simple sandwich. He ate standing by the counter, chewing mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere.
This place is strange… but it's not entirely alien. Not yet. There were echoes of his old world here—buildings, people, desperation. But the social fabric had shifted. People watched each other with guarded eyes. The threat of mutation wasn't just biological—it was social, emotional. Everyone suspected everyone else.
'It makes trust a luxury. Which, for me, is perfect.'
Later, after brushing his teeth and changing into fresh clothes, Zane collapsed into bed.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of city lights beyond the window blending with the quiet inside. For a while, his mind wandered through everything he'd seen. The monster. The AMF. The apartment full of terrified tenants. None of it felt entirely real.
And yet—it was.
"If someone told me yesterday I'd wake up in a new body, in a new century, I would've laughed," he whispered. "Now, I just wish I knew what the hell I'm supposed to do next."
Part of him still wondered if this was some long, lucid dream. Maybe he'd wake up soon, back in his dingy flat, alarms blaring, contract sheets on his desk, another target to study and hunt.
But something told him this was permanent.
Maybe that was a good thing, and maybe it was not.
"This world's a mess," he murmured. "But maybe it's the kind of mess I was made for."
So far, he didn't know if he truly liked the idea of being here or if he longed for his old life, and only time will tell him what he truly felt.
Eventually, the weight of exhaustion pulled him under. His eyes drifted closed. His breathing slowed.
And for the first time since his arrival… he truly slept.
Morning came quickly.
Whistle… whistle…
The sharp notes of birdsong pierced the quiet apartment. Soft golden sunlight pooled onto the floor through the window, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
Zane stirred.
His brow furrowed as he rolled over and groaned. "Ugh… too early…"
But the real enemy wasn't the birds.
It was the phone.
A high-pitched, cheerful anime opening blasted from the device on his bedside table, shattering any hope of returning to slumber.
"What in the seven hells…" he muttered, squinting as he reached out and silenced it. When he opened his eyes properly, a wave of realization hit him.
Right. Not a dream. Not his bed. Not his old world.
Still this one.
Still Zane.
"School," he said aloud. "I have school today."
He sat up slowly, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. His joints cracked as he stretched, bones realigning after a full night's rest.
'First full sleep in years,' he thought, blinking at the sunlight. 'It's odd to sleep this deeply. I usually just stay in a half-sleep, half-awake state to make sure no one ambushes me when I'm not aware.'
It was… surreal.
A part of him wanted to crawl back under the covers. To preserve this fragile peace just a little longer. But another part—the one that always dragged him forward, even in his old life—knew better.
"This world isn't going to wait for me," he muttered, stepping onto the cold tile floor.
He made his way to the bathroom and began his morning routine, the steam from the shower washing away the night's weight. There was something symbolic in the act—a quiet cleansing. A reset.
And as he dressed, he stared at himself in the mirror.
Not his face. Not really.
But the eyes were his.
Sharp. Alert. Ready. The same eyes he saw in the mirror every single day for the past 30-something years.
"This is my second day in this world," he said. "Let's see what you've got for me."
And with that, Zane opened the door, stepping into the sunlight.
A new day had begun.