Chapter 3

After the power went out, daylight still let you make out the corridor’s outline through the windows—door numbers, corners, the turns. But at night the whole building felt like it had been shoved into a black box.

That week, I barely left my apartment.

I didn’t go to meetings. I didn’t answer knocks. People shouted in the hallway—“Who’s got batteries?” “Who opened the damn door downstairs again?”—and I pretended not to hear. I stayed curled up inside like an unremarkable stone.

In the first three days, I did one thing: I filled my bathtub.

Before the water fully stopped, I let it run until it spilled over. A tub of water was a tub of certainty. Once it was full, I closed the bathroom door like nothing had happened.

No one needed to know—especially not Mason.

But for days I’d had a bad feeling. That day in the lobby, I’d barged in carrying two big grocery bags, and I’d lingered there far too long.

I should’ve been more careful.

Thinking about it now was useless. My supplies were still here. My door was still locked. All I had to do was keep my head down, stay invisible, and ride out the messiest stretch.

Footsteps sounded outside.

Not the soft, passing kind—these stopped with purpose. The steps drew up right at my door, like someone planted their feet and adjusted their breathing.

Then came the knock.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Not fast, not slow—measured.

“Ethan.” Mason’s voice came through the door, low and hard. “Open up. Unified management. Routine inspection.”

I didn’t answer. I went to the peephole and leaned close.

The hallway was dark, but I could still make out his silhouette.

Mason stood in front, shoulders broad enough to narrow the corridor. Two men were behind him—Mark, the bartender from the seventeenth floor; and Noah, that tall, skinny guy from the fifteenth who always joined in the yelling.

Mark gripped a crowbar. Noah held a kitchen knife. The knife wasn’t for cutting anything—it was for making people afraid.

Mason carried no weapon.

The knock came again.

Thud.

“Quit playing dead,” Mason said. “Everyone’s turned theirs in. You’re the last one. Open the door.”

Everyone’s turned theirs in—a piece of cloth thrown over robbery, pretending it wasn’t robbery.

I stood behind the door and didn’t open it right away—not because I thought they’d leave. The opposite. I knew my door wouldn’t stop them. If they forced it, Mason could kick it in and Mark had a crowbar. Once the door was breached, it wouldn’t just be about losing supplies—what happened in my last life, being beaten to death, could happen again.

I drew a breath, made my voice a little hoarse on purpose, like I hadn’t spoken much all week.

“What do you want with me?” I asked through the door.

“Inventory registration,” Mason said. “Unified allocation. Open up.”

“I don’t have much,” I said.

“Open the door. I’m not repeating myself a third time.”

I paused for two seconds, as if struggling. Then I opened the door a hand’s width, the chain still latched.

Mason’s gaze squeezed through the crack, scanning the apartment like he was hunting for where I’d hidden things.

“Undo the chain,” he said.

I shook my head. “Can’t you register it from out there?”

Noah let out a sharp little laugh. “Register? You think we’re here to fill out forms?”

Mark lifted the crowbar and tapped it lightly on the frame—clink—backing up Mason’s threat.

“Ethan.” Mason’s voice moved closer. “Don’t make me kick it in.”

I pressed my lips together, like I’d finally gotten scared.

I unlatched the chain.

The door was pushed open.

Mason stepped in, steady as if he were walking into a place that already belonged to him. Mark and Noah followed.

I retreated to the edge of the living room, putting myself where they could control me easily. Shoulders slightly hunched, eyes avoiding Mason’s.

“Fine,” I asked. “What are you registering?”

Mason didn’t answer. He pointed straight at the row of kitchen cabinets.

“Open them.”

“There’s nothing in there,” I said.

“Open them.”

I walked over and opened the cabinet. Inside were a few packs of energy bars, a small jar of peanut butter, and two cans. The amount I’d left out on purpose—neither too much nor too little. The rest was stuffed above the ceiling panels.

Noah’s eyes lit up and he reached for them. “You said you didn’t have much.”

I didn’t snatch them back. I only said quietly, “I have to live too.”

“We all have to live,” Mason said. He spoke like a man presiding over justice, while his hand took those two cans and shoved them into Noah’s arms. “Write it down.”

Noah tucked the cans against his chest like someone might steal them.

Mason turned to the backpack on my table, hooked it toward himself, unzipped it, and rifled through. Inside were two bottles of water, a few compressed biscuits, several batteries, and a roll of bandages.

He searched fast, like he was looking for “the extra part.”

He didn’t find it.

Mason zipped it closed and looked up. “That’s it?”

I nodded, swallowed hard. “That’s it.”

Noah didn’t believe me. His eyes scanned the apartment, like he wanted to pry food out of the walls. “A guy like you—no way you only hoarded this little. I saw you in the lobby with two huge bags.”

My stomach sank.

Of course.

They weren’t doing this “door to door.” They remembered me.

Mason took over. “Yeah. I saw you too. Don’t play games. Everyone handed theirs over. You’re still hiding stuff—that’s not fair.”

When he said not fair, his eyes were flat, like he was discussing principle. But he kept stepping closer until my back met the wall.

“One more time,” Mason said. “How much are you hiding?”

“Nothing else,” I said.

Noah rolled the knife in his palm. The tip pointed down, but the posture itself was threat enough. “Then we’ll find it ourselves.”

Mark raised the crowbar, his gaze landing on my bedroom door. “Let’s check in there first.”

Noah shoved the bedroom door open, his phone screen lighting up. The beam swept the room. He yanked open drawers, kicked under the bed.

“Nothing,” Noah called.

Mark moved to the wardrobe. With a small pry of the crowbar, the door cracked open. His phone light shone inside—only clothes and an old suitcase.

Mason stayed in the living room, unmoving.

He was waiting for a faster answer.

“Ethan,” he said. “If you don’t want us to turn your place inside out, hand it over. I’ll take half. Half stays with you—enough to live.”

He made it sound like charity.

I lowered my head as if I’d finally caved, voice tight. “Isn’t this enough? This is all I have.”

Mason’s expression went cold.

He grabbed my collar and slammed me against the wall. My back hit with a dull thump. Air squeezed out of my lungs; I coughed.

“Don’t waste my time,” Mason said. “Where’s the key? Storage room key? Or did you stash it somewhere else?”

“I don’t…” I panted.

Noah came out of the bedroom, impatience on his face. “If he won’t hand it over, then we just—”

Mason lifted a hand and cut him off, eyes never leaving me. “You can refuse. You can keep quiet. Then I’ll tear your door off and pry up every floorboard in here until I find it.”

I looked at him as if I’d finally realized I had no choice. My throat bobbed, like I was swallowing humiliation.

“…I can tell you a place,” I said.

Mason loosened his grip a fraction, eyes flicking. “What place?”

I raised my head, making myself look like a man selling out someone else to save his own skin.

“There’s a guy on my floor,” I said. “The one who ran back in from outside that day. He hasn’t come out once in the last seven days.”

Noah’s eyes went bright. “So?”

“He’s got food. He’s a hoarder. I live on the same floor—I used to see him carrying bags and bags of groceries into his place.”

Mason stared at me for a few seconds, judging whether I was trying to set him up.

I added, like I was begging to be spared, “If you’re checking the whole building, how could you miss him? He never registered. Go to his place—you’ll have every right.”

Mason gave a short laugh. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

He turned and left like he didn’t want to give me time to change my mind. Mark and Noah followed.

At the threshold, Noah glanced back and glared. “You’d better not be playing games.”

I didn’t answer. I only eased my door shut—didn’t lock it.

I grabbed my flashlight and followed them into the dark hallway.

It wasn’t a long walk, but every step I could hear my own breathing. Phone light wobbled across the walls; door numbers flashed in and out.

That door was just ahead.

I remembered clearly—how he’d burst into the lobby, shouting, Someone out there attacked and bit us, then drank the water Claire handed him, his hands shaking the whole time.

I’d seen the scratch marks. I’d seen everyone brush it off.

Over the last seven days I’d paid attention on purpose—he hadn’t come out once.

No trips into the corridor. No meetings. No coming out for water. No voices from inside.

I was one hundred percent sure there wasn’t a person in there anymore.

Mason stopped in front of the door and knocked.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

No answer.

Noah muttered, “Playing dead?”

Mason tilted his head at Mark. “Pry it.”

Mark wedged the crowbar into the gap and levered his wrist down.

Metal shrieked as it twisted. The lock cylinder gave way, forced open. The door split a narrow crack.

A stench surged out—like a meat locker shut for too long.

Noah’s excitement froze. His face changed. “This—”

I said at once, “The power’s out. If he hoarded meat and vegetables, it’s all spoiled. But he’ll still have other food!”

Mason stepped back half a pace, giving the position to Noah and Mark.

Mark swallowed, pushed the door wider, and shone his phone light inside. The living room was a mess. Empty cans littered the floor, torn open like they’d been ripped apart by teeth.

Noah tightened his grip on the knife and craned his neck in. “Is there food?”

“Get in first,” Mason urged, voice cold.

Noah, irritated by the push, lifted his foot and crossed the threshold. Mark followed one step behind.

The three of them moved in slowly, probing the apartment. The moment they reached the kitchen—

A figure exploded out of the darkness.

Fast. Almost no warning.

In the instant the phone light swept across that face, I confirmed it—

It was the same man who’d been scratched that day.

His eyes were empty. The corners of his mouth were split. The whites of his eyes were drowned in blood; dark veins webbed across his face.

Noah didn’t even have time to back up. He was slammed off his feet and knocked deeper inside, his knife flying from his hand and clattering near the threshold.

“Back!” Mark shrieked.

The scream detonated in the dark, instantly grating.

Noah struggled to crawl. He’d barely pushed himself halfway up when the thing pinned him down and snapped its jaws toward his throat. Noah threw up an arm, but it was too late—teeth sank clean into his artery.

Noah’s scream warped. “Mason! Mason! Pull me!”

Mason stood outside the kitchen, stunned by the sudden horror. The zombie released Noah and lunged for Mason instead. Mason jerked back a step, grabbed Mark beside him, and shoved him hard into the room.

Mark was thrown back, crashing into the thing. It turned instantly toward the closer target—Mark—and bit down.

Mark went white, disbelief on his face. In that single second of opening, Mason bolted out of the kitchen, sprinted for the front door—his toe already over the line, half a step from escaping.

I moved too.

I’d been standing to the side of the door the whole time—didn’t rush in, didn’t retreat. I’d been waiting for this moment.

Not caring who died—only caring about saving himself.

Exactly like my last life.

Mason turned—

And met my eyes.

First, blank surprise—he hadn’t expected me to be standing so close. Then, in the next heartbeat, he saw my face.

All the fear, the retreat, the forced cooperation I’d acted out in my apartment—vanished.

My gaze was steady. My breathing was steady. Like I’d been waiting for a single point from start to finish.

Mason’s pupils tightened. Shock overrode the viciousness.

He realized something: I’d been pretending the whole time.

“You—” he managed only one sound.

I stepped in, lifted my foot, and drove it into his chest.

“This is for that kick in my last life.”

Bang!

Mason flew backward, stumbled, and crashed back into the apartment, slamming into an overturned chair with a dull thud.

He tried to get up.

I reached out and slammed the door shut.