Chapter 2

I rushed into the lobby of Silver Bay Apartments carrying two heavy grocery bags. The plastic handles bit into my fingers until they turned white. Cans knocked against bottled water inside, thudding dully.

I hadn’t had time to pick and choose—nor could I buy too boldly. If one person suddenly panics and stocks up on shelf-stable food and medicine, people call him timid. If he buys like he’s clearing out the store, they call him suspicious.

My plan was simple: shut the door, survive the most chaotic thirty days, and wait for extraction.

So I’d bought the most practical list: compressed biscuits, energy bars, canned goods, peanut butter, salt, vitamins, batteries, a flashlight, bandages, painkillers. Enough for one person for a full month—no more, no less.

The moment I stepped into the lobby, I saw twenty or thirty residents jammed near the entrance.

Two sides were facing off.

One side wanted to go out—find rescue, find family, grab supplies. The other wanted to lock the doors and wait for official news.

Nobody really knew each other, but everyone believed they were the only one thinking clearly.

I didn’t push into the middle.

I set my bags down in the shadow by the wall and leaned there too, deliberately making my breathing a little fast, my face a little pale—acting like I’d just escaped from the street.

Being calm would make people suspicious. This time, I was not stepping up. Best if everyone treated me like I didn’t exist.

“Now if we don’t go, when the hell do we?” A man in a jacket clenched his car keys, knuckles white. “It’s chaos out there—cops can’t even handle it! We’ve gotta find help and get food!”

“If you go out, you’re just making it worse!” a woman shot back, voice shrill. “Didn’t you hear people screaming outside??”

“Food? What food?” The jacketed man sneered. “You’re just scared. Even if there are a few crazies, there’s no way the whole city’s full of them!”

In my last life, I would’ve told them not to go. In this one, I wasn’t going to manage anyone.

A young guy in a baseball cap suddenly shoved to the front and pushed the glass doors open. “I’m going to take a look.”

Someone grabbed for his arm. “Don’t—”

He shook free. “Don’t touch me! You want to lock me in here to die?”

The door opened halfway. Outside was quiet, as if nothing had happened at all.

“See?” The cap-wearing guy shouted back. “Not as bad as you’re making it out to be!”

He walked out. Two more followed—one sprinted toward the garage, the other ran while dialing his phone.

Just like that, the first group left.

I lowered my head, picked up my bags, and edged half a step closer to the wall—like an ordinary resident scared into hiding.

Ten minutes passed. The people who went out didn’t come back.

The lobby doors were glass; normally they stayed unlocked. Only the security desk had the key. Someone found it in the empty booth and locked the doors.

But the lobby grew even more chaotic. Someone cried that her boyfriend was still outside. Someone suggested not locking up and taking turns guarding the entrance. Someone else proposed going up to their apartments and bringing down anything useful to pool together.

“Pool?” Somebody instantly snapped. “Why the hell would we pool? That’s mine!”

That was when Claire squeezed to the front.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but every word was clean and sharp. “Everyone, listen to me. The most dangerous thing right now is all of us acting on our own. Whether we go out or stay, we need one basic agreement—don’t damage the doors. I’m not here to command anyone. I just don’t want us to get each other killed. We need to stick together.”

The moment she said “stick together,” a lot of hostility softened.

Moral correctness was the cheapest—and strongest—weapon there was.

Then hurried footsteps pounded outside.

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone slammed the glass, voice cracked with panic. “Open up! Hurry—open up!”

The lobby went half a beat quiet.

Three figures sprinted up to the door, clothes wrinkled, faces paper-white. The man in front clutched his right arm. Blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto the threshold like a red line.

“It’s the ones who went out earlier!” someone recognized them.

The injured man gasped, “Outside… people jumped us and bit… we ran back… open the door!”

Mason appeared, snatched the key, and unlocked the entrance. The bloody man surged inside. I caught his face—same floor as mine, a finance guy.

Everyone started talking at once, until Mason barked, “Shut up!”

The crowd fell silent. Claire brought over a bottle of water and handed it to the injured man.

He drank, still panting. “Don’t go out. Nobody go out. It’s too dangerous—everywhere… even the cops got hit. They’re not afraid of guns…”

Someone turned as if to bolt upstairs.

“Don’t scatter!” Claire raised her voice immediately. “No one moves alone now. If you’re going upstairs, fine—but at least register it. Tell everyone what floor you’re going to. Otherwise if something happens, no one will even know!”

Her “suggestion” was already becoming “rules.”

The crowd hesitated. Mason slapped the wall once. “Do what she said.”

Just like that, they took control of the situation.

Right then, the lobby lights flickered as if someone had cut power in half. Only a few emergency lamps remained, glowing a sickly green.

“Power outage?” someone whispered, trembling.

No one answered.

That was when I saw it—there looked to be scratches on the finance guy’s arm.

These people hadn’t lived my last life. Their understanding of the infected was limited. They thought only bites mattered. But I knew better: bites or scratches, both carried risk. The incubation could be long—sometimes as long as two weeks.

I finally spoke—my only warning to everyone in this life.

“Anyone who went out and came back injured needs to be grouped together,” I said. “Quarantine and observe. Lock them in an empty unit if you have to—just don’t let them go back to their own floors.”

The man exploded instantly. “What the hell are you implying? It’s just a scratch!”

Others joined in at once:

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch.”

“We’re not a prison—who are you to lock people up?”

Claire seized the opening, voice rising as she slapped a label on me. “He’s already hurt and scared, and you want to lock him up?”

Mason stepped right up to me, close enough that I could smell his sweat.

“Spread panic again,” Mason stared me down, “and I’ll throw you out right now.”

People in the lobby nodded along with Claire.

I looked at them, then nodded once.

No arguing. No explaining. Not one more wasted word.

“Fine,” I said. “Your choice. Your responsibility.”

I lifted my grocery bags and turned toward the stairwell.

From this moment on, I would not offer a second suggestion.