Harley's vision swam as he struggled to maintain his balance. His body felt heavy, sluggish, as though every movement required more effort than it should. The familiar sense of urgency that had driven him to push through the zombie horde now seemed distant, replaced by a disorienting fog that clouded his mind. His legs were unsteady, his chest tight, and his skin felt unnervingly warm.
"Shit," Harley muttered under his breath as he stumbled toward the washroom, his steps uncoordinated and slow. The world around him seemed to tilt as if gravity had momentarily lost its grip. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles white, trying to steady himself.
When he finally made it to the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzed above him, casting a sickly glow over everything. He leaned against the sink, trying to focus, trying to shake off the dizziness that threatened to consume him. His hands trembled as he turned to the mirror, and for the first time since the chaos started, he saw his reflection clearly.
The scar on his chest was unmistakable. It was raw, the edges still red and irritated, and it ran just below his ribcage, a jagged line of pale flesh amidst the bruising that had begun to settle in. Harley's breath caught in his throat as the memory of the zombie horde he fought through flooded back. He had been so focused on the fight, so focused on getting to the office building, that he hadn't felt the bite at first. It must've happened during that brutal struggle—a wound he hadn't noticed until now, as if his body had been too full of adrenaline to process the pain at the time.
But now… now the reality set in.
Harley stared at the scar, his heart pounding in his chest as fear crept into the pit of his stomach. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. Could it be? Was he becoming one of them? His mind screamed at the idea, a mixture of denial and terror swirling inside him. This couldn't be happening. Not to him.
"No," Harley growled, his voice rough with anger and disbelief. "No way."
His hands clenched into fists, and without thinking, he swung his right hand at the mirror. The punch landed with a sickening crack, shattering the reflective surface into a million tiny shards. His knuckles burned, and his body trembled as he took in the mess of glass and jagged edges on the floor. Blood from his hand dripped onto the sink, but he hardly noticed.
He was too consumed by the thought that he was changing. He couldn't let this happen. Not like this. Not after everything he had fought for.
He glared at the remains of his reflection, his chest heaving as the blood-streaked mirror taunted him. The wound on his chest, the dizziness, the feeling of losing control of his own body—was it too late? Was he already slipping? Was his body already starting to betray him?
A knot twisted in his stomach. The idea of becoming one of those mindless, decaying creatures was unbearable. He had fought too hard, lost too much to succumb to something like this. His eyes burned with frustration as he clenched his jaw.
"I'm not gonna die like this," Harley muttered to himself, the words low and fierce, like a vow. "I'm not gonna let it happen."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself despite the wave of nausea and dizziness that washed over him. He could feel the scar on his chest throbbing, as though it were alive, growing with a life of its own. But Harley refused to give in. There had to be a way out. He wouldn't let this be the end.
With great effort, Harley straightened up, wiping his bloody hand on his pants as he forced himself to focus. He needed to act. He needed to find answers. He couldn't afford to let panic consume him.
The mirror shards still glistened on the floor, a reminder of his internal battle. His pulse raced in his ears, but he steadied himself. There was no time for self-pity, no time for weakness. If he was going to survive this—if he was going to get through it—he had to fight, just as he had been doing all along.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his mind racing with possibilities. The scar, the dizziness, the feeling of something slipping from his grasp—it all pointed to one thing: the infection. The bite. He had heard stories before, stories of people turning into zombies after getting scratched or bitten. But this? This couldn't be real. He couldn't just accept it.
Harley turned away from the broken mirror, his mind set with a new resolve. If the infection was spreading through his body, he would find a way to stop it. He would find a cure, a way to fight back, to reclaim control of his body before it was too late.
He wasn't going to die like this. He was stronger than that.
And as he stumbled out of the bathroom, he steeled himself for whatever came next. The world outside was still filled with danger, with the undead and the chaos of survival, but Harley knew one thing for sure: he wasn't going down without a fight.