A pale sun leaked through the cracks of the boarded window, its light dim and dust-filtered, as if even the morning had forgotten how to shine. Reiji awoke with a slow jolt on a sagging couch, the scent of mold and old wood thick in the air. His body ached in places he could no longer name, the pain a lingering memory of survival. The stillness around him was unnatural, heavy, suffocating. He blinked hard, trying to shake off the daze. This wasn't a dream. Not anymore.
He sat up, slow and unsure, the creak of the couch springs louder than it should have been. The image from last night resurfaced like bile in his throat. That thing, the woman. No, she wasn't a woman anymore. Whatever she was, she had knocked. She had stared. And when he looked into her eyes, he saw nothing. Nothing at all. Not fear. Not recognition. Just an abyss that mirrored something ancient and inhuman.
His thoughts spiraled until a presence stirred in the doorway. The man, tall and gaunt with eyes that had seen too much, stepped in. He held a metal thermos but didn't offer it. He only looked.
"You still breathing," the man said, not as a question but as a weary observation.
Reiji nodded. Barely.
"This is how it is now. Been like this ever since that day."
The man didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. Reiji saw the fatigue pressed into the lines on his face. The kind of exhaustion that came not from sleepless nights, but from watching the world decay in slow, unrelenting horror.
"The rules have changed," the man continued. "No more laws. No more second chances. You move fast, or you end up like them."
Reiji didn't respond. His throat felt dry and raw. What rules? What was left to follow? The man spoke like someone who had buried hope long ago.
"They used to be us," the man said quietly. "But not anymore. Once you die… you come back."
The words settled into Reiji's chest like frost.
The silence dragged for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, the man extended his hand.
"Souta Hayashi," he said. "My boy over there, that's Ren."
A small figure peeked through the hallway shadows. Messy-haired, wide-eyed, barely more than seven. The boy held onto a worn-out plush rabbit, its ears torn, one button eye missing.
Reiji forced himself to stand. His muscles complained, his balance swayed.
"Reiji," he said. "Reiji Arata."
Souta nodded once, solemnly.
Reiji lowered his voice, careful not to let it travel beyond them. "Last night. The woman. She knew something. She... she looked right through me."
Souta's face shifted. That mask of grim practicality broke into something else. Guilt. Desperation. And beneath it all, a grief so vast it seemed to hollow his chest.
"That was my wife," he whispered. "Yuka."
He sank onto a nearby crate. Ren disappeared from the hall.
"This used to be our home," he said. "Before everything. Before her."
Reiji listened. There was no judgment. Just a need to understand.
"She was sick. Even before the world turned. Wouldn't go to the hospital. Said it was nothing. Her fever got worse. She stopped eating. Then she couldn't move. One day… she just didn't breathe anymore."
Souta paused, fingers tightening around the thermos.
"We buried her in the garden. Thought that was the end of it. Then I saw her again. First I thought it was a dream. Her shadow in the hallway. A cough. A whimper. Then… movement. Twitchy. Not human. Like someone learning how to wear a body. But it was her. Yuka. Dressed the same. Hair tied the way she always liked. But the way she moved-no rhythm. Like a puppet on invisible strings."
Reiji felt his skin crawl. The image painted itself in his mind and refused to fade.
Souta stared at the floor, glassy-eyed. "She comes back sometimes. Stands by the fence. Leaves things she remembers. Her favorite books. My jacket. Even Ren's broken toy car. It's not her. But part of her remembers. Part of her wants to be here. That's the worst part."
A small voice cut through the stillness.
"Papa. There's no more food."
Ren stood by the doorway again, rubbing his eye. Souta stood quickly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go, Reiji."
Reiji blinked. "Where?"
Souta opened the closet and pulled out a crooked wooden stick wrapped with barbed wire.
"Scavenging. Need to eat."
He tossed something else toward Reiji. A dented trashcan lid and a metal bat.
"You'll need those. Trust me."
Reiji caught them, more confused than anything. The makeshift shield felt ridiculous in his grip. But the weight of the bat.. that felt familiar. He followed Souta out the door.
The lawn had long surrendered to nature. Weeds snaked up the rusting fence. As Reiji stepped onto the grass, a foul stench punched his senses. And then he saw it.
A figure. Standing crooked. Its limbs too stiff, its neck tilted unnaturally. The skin looked human, but something beneath it pulsed wrong. Its eyes were open, unblinking, mouth hanging slack.
Reiji stepped back in horror. The trashcan lid almost slipped from his grip.
"Aim for the head," Souta said quietly.
The thing lunged.
Reiji reacted too slowly. The creature slammed into him. They fell hard. The bat flew from his hand. But the lid-that crude shield, kept the snapping mouth at bay.
"Don't get bit," Souta shouted.
The creature growled, a low, guttural sound that scraped against Reiji's nerves. Its breath stank of decay. Its hands clawed wildly. Reiji twisted, shoved it off with a desperate heave, then dove for the bat.
He gripped the weapon and turned just in time.
The first strike missed.
The second crushed its temple.
The third shattered its face.
He didn't stop. Not until it stopped moving. Not until its skull was pulp.
Then silence.
His stomach churned. He turned and vomited into the weeds. The sour taste burned his throat.
A hand rested on his shoulder. Souta. Silent. Approving.
They moved on.
The neighborhood was a husk of its former self. Rotting walls. Empty strollers. Torn curtains fluttering like whispers. They broke into houses with practiced ease. No alarms. No angry owners. Just echoes.
They returned with enough for a few days. Cans. Rice. Powdered milk. A half-used box of painkillers.
Ren clapped when he saw the food.
That night, after the boy had eaten and curled up with his rabbit, Reiji and Souta sat by the candlelight. The flame danced in their eyes.
"Why were you out there?" Souta asked.
Reiji hesitated. Then, for the first time in days, he told the truth.
"I was in the military. Special ops. Tasked with a mission. We knew something was happening but not the full scope. Last thing I remember... I took a bullet for my friend. I went down. Should've died. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a hospital bed, everything's gone."
His voice cracked. "My fiancée. Emilia. I don't know if she's alive. No messages. No signs."
Souta stared into the flame.
"After that day, most left Tokyo. Government set up safe zones. Claimed they had a cure. Promised everything would go back to normal. Maybe they believed it. Maybe they lied. Either way, they moved them to secluded places. Islands mostly. One of them… Teshima. Remote. Guarded."
The name lit something inside Reiji. A spark.
"Then there's hope," he whispered.
Souta looked at him. "You plan to find her?"
Reiji nodded. "I have to. I need to know."
"What if she's not the same anymore?"
Reiji clenched the bat tighter.
"Then I still need to see her one last time."
A beat of silence passed. Then:
"Take us with you," Souta said. "We can't survive here forever. Not with Ren."
Reiji nodded. "First, we go to the local police station. Supplies. Weapons. Maybe a vehicle."
Souta held out his hand. Reiji took it.
Tomorrow, they would move.
But tonight, the candle flickered.
And outside, in the dark, something scratched against the glass.
To be continued.