Years Ago
A sudden disaster struck—a series of random sinkholes opened up, releasing gases that filled the air with a strange scent. Many who inhaled it fell sick, developing high fevers. For years, daily activities came to a halt, forcing people to wear masks and remain in quarantine until they recovered from the gas-induced illness.
The streets were filled with people wearing masks. Though the gas gradually dissipated, and fewer leaks emerged from the sinkholes, hopes began to rise that the air would return to normal. However, the government still recommended people wear masks as a precaution when leaving their homes.
That glimmer of hope was soon extinguished by the outbreak of a new virus—one that turned humans into uncontrollable zombies. Initially, the authorities suspected the virus was linked to the gas, but after extensive studies by leading scientists around the world, no evidence pointed to the gas as the source. The substance found in the infected bodies was entirely different from what had been detected in the gas emissions.
The origin of the virus remained a mystery.
The only thing certain was that the infection spread through bites from those who had become zombies.
Researchers conducted numerous experiments to trace the virus's beginnings, dissecting the bodies of victims. Some desperate scientists even allowed themselves to be bitten for the sake of research. But despite all their efforts, no answers were found. Even after the gas had fully disappeared, the virus continued to spread relentlessly, overwhelming humanity.
The world crumbled into chaos. There were no signs of recovery. Nations fell apart under the weight of unrest, the death toll soared, and the human population dwindled. Borders ceased to matter, as people abandoned national identities in their desperate search for safe havens. Survival became the only goal. Military organizations took control of the remaining safe zones, assuming power over the remnants of civilization.
When will this nightmare end?
This question haunted everyone. They clung tightly to memories of a time before the world fell apart, holding on to the hope that peace might one day return, and their lives could go back to what they once were.
*
Sorn wasn't ungrateful for the comfort he had received during his stay in this mysterious building. He had spent almost a week doing nothing here—which, admittedly, was one of his favorite things. The best part was that he could sleep on a bed instead of cold floors or rough asphalt. Currently, he lay on his soft bed, his body free of any soreness, staring at the dimly lit ceiling.
He wasn't allowed to go to the main floor. No one explained why, so he spent his days confined to this room. At the very least, Dean told him to stay put until Ralf returned to the base.
They hadn't even had a proper conversation, and yet the man had disappeared, leaving Sorn with unanswered questions that gnawed at him.
Ralf had told him to ask Dean anything he wanted to know, but the gay bastard never gave him a satisfying answer whenever they talked.
Like for example, the other day, when Sorn tried to go downstairs, Dean appeared immediately—as if on watchdog duty—and asked, 'What are you trying to do down there? What do you need?' If Sorn wanted anything, Dean could get it for him, whether it was new clothes or food. It felt like house arrest, even though he was supposedly part of this stupid, nameless group.
So, he spent his days wandering around the floor. Apparently, there were only four rooms: his own, Matthew's room, Ralf's room and his study.
Dean regularly brought him meals, though Sorn always greeted him with a grumble, pouting, 'Ah, I miss the feel of sunlight on my skin.' And each time, Dean gave the same answer— to wait for Ralf's return. Once Ralf was back, Sorn could ask or demand whatever he wanted.
The gay man did share some basic information about the group. Apparently, there were only 12 members, including Sorn. Five of them were currently away on missions with Ralf and would return when they finished. Emil handled food supplies and guarded the kitchen and storage, Dean acted as Hilda's bodyguard, while Matthew and Baruch handled security around the building and its surroundings.
After hearing that, Sorn bluntly asked if Dean was assigned to guard Hilda because he didn't have any interest in women. Though Dean initially looked a bit offended, he admitted that this was indeed why Ralf had chosen him for the job.
Their conversations never lasted long, as if Dean carefully chose every word. Sorn had tried asking whether Dean and Ralf had known each other for a long time or how they'd met, but Dean always avoided answering and repeated, 'Ask Ralf when he gets back.'
It frustrated Sorn to no end. Ralf had told him he could ask Dean anything—so why was Dean dodging all his questions?
As the newest member, Sorn spent most of his time locked in his room. He reread old books he already knew inside and out, but boredom forced him to go through them again. His days consisted of eating, working out to stretch his muscles, and sleeping.
So, was he really a part of this group? Or had Ralf taken his words—'Mad Lucifer is just a status'—too literally and decided not to give him any real assignments, except being his personal assistant?
"…Hah, I'm bored."
If he was supposed to be Ralf's assistant, shouldn't he be with Ralf right now? Sorn furrowed his brows, straightened up from the bed, and stepped out of the room.
The moment he crossed the doorway, Dean stirred from his seat—even though he had been asleep on the sofa just a second ago.
"..."
"Do you need something?" Dean asked, lifting one of his eyebrows.
"No, I'm just bored. Can't I go out for a bit?"
Dean pursed his lips, as if deep in thought. He tilted his head, muttered hmm..., scratched his chin, and cleared his throat. After all that thinking, his answer remained the same.
"Nope."
Sorn wasn't even surprised by the response. Why did this guy treat him like a child?
"Fine, then whatever, I want to explore the building. I'll go crazy if I only know what my room looks like."
"Isn't your room enough? Ralf pampers you so much that I can't even bring myself to be jealous..."
"I just want to see the rest of the place. How many floors are there? What's downstairs? Is there another floor above us? Do you expect me to stay in a place I know nothing about? What is this—my prison?"
His voice rose toward the end, frustration bubbling up after days of being monitored nonstop. But the man in front of him only scratched his head, looking reluctant.
"... You said there are twelve members, and six of them are out, including Ralf. So that leaves just me, you, Emil, Hilda, Matthew, and Baruch here. That means there's no one downstairs... If Ralf wanted to stop me from meeting the others, now's the perfect time for me to explore the building!"
Dean sighed. "Alright, I'll explain it to you. This building isn't that big, so there's really no need to wander around. And Ralf told me that he wants to be the one to show you around himself, as... uh... a chance to go on a date with you. So, you're supposed to stay on this floor."
His voice trailed off as his face scrunched in discomfort, as if every word he'd just said physically hurt him.
"Goddamn it, your leader is ridiculous!"
"I know, I'm embarrassed to even call him our leader sometimes. Seriously, his childish requests make my skin crawl."
"Ugh," Sorn muttered, inadvertently shivering. "I want to explore the building now. Besides, your leader won't even know. It's not like there are any security cameras in this place."
Just to be sure, Sorn scanned every corner of the room. Fortunately, there were no cameras in sight.