Darkness lingered like a suffocating shroud as Harley drifted in and out of consciousness. The faint echo of voices calling his name faded into the void, replaced by the dull, persistent thrum of his heartbeat. Images of his fall replayed in fragmented flashes—the kick, the sheer drop, the car crumpling beneath his weight. Then, nothing. Just silence.
Harley's senses returned slowly, one by one. The first was touch—the cold, unyielding metal beneath him. Then came the sharp scent of gasoline and burnt rubber. Finally, his sight flickered back into focus. Blinking against the dim light of a broken streetlamp, he became aware of the wreckage surrounding him.
He was lying atop a mangled car, the roof caved in where he had landed. Harley groaned, his body aching but oddly responsive. He pushed himself up, wincing at the effort, expecting to feel the sting of broken bones or the sharp pull of torn muscles. Instead, there was nothing. No pain, no injury—just an odd, electric energy coursing through him.
Confused, Harley ran his hands over his chest and limbs, searching for the gunshot wound or the fractures he should have sustained. His shirt was torn and bloodied, but beneath it, his skin was unblemished. The bite mark he had seen earlier was gone, replaced by smooth, pale flesh.
"What… the hell?" he muttered, his voice hoarse but steady.
As he sat up, his hand instinctively gripped the broken edge of the car's roof for support. The metal groaned under his touch, twisting like soft clay. Harley froze, staring at his hand in disbelief. His fingers, pale and unnervingly steady, seemed to possess a strength he couldn't comprehend. He gripped the edge again, this time deliberately. The hinges buckled effortlessly beneath his grip.
Harley scrambled off the car, his movements oddly fluid and precise. He stumbled to the side of the road, his reflection catching his eye in a shard of broken glass on the ground. What he saw made his stomach churn.
His once-dark hair was now a shimmering silver, the strands catching the faint light like spun metal. His skin, drained of its natural color, was a ghostly white, almost translucent. But it was his eyes that startled him most. Gone were the warm brown irises he had known all his life. In their place were orbs of predatory crimson, glowing faintly like embers in the night.
Harley stumbled back, his breath hitching. "No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "This can't be real." He pressed his palms against his face, as if trying to will the transformation away, but the cool, unnatural texture of his skin was undeniable.
The sound of distant gunfire snapped him out of his daze. It was faint but distinct, a stark reminder of the chaos he had left behind. He glanced around, the deserted street eerily silent save for the occasional rustle of the wind. The helicopter was gone, its searchlights and the soldiers' shouts nothing more than a memory. He was alone.
Harley took a shaky step forward, his bare feet crunching against the shattered glass. The world around him seemed sharper, more vivid. He could hear the faint hum of an electrical wire overhead, the scuttle of rats in a nearby alley, even the whisper of the wind through broken windows. His senses were heightened, every detail amplified to an almost overwhelming degree.
But alongside the clarity came a gnawing hunger, a deep, primal need that clawed at his insides. It wasn't like the mindless craving he had seen in the other zombies. This was different—controlled, focused, but no less insistent. Harley clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists as he fought to suppress the urge.
"Get it together," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "You're not like them. You're still… you."
He needed answers. What had the virus done to him? Why was he still conscious, still self-aware, when so many others had succumbed to mindless savagery? And most importantly, what did this mean for his future? The questions swirled in his mind, a storm of uncertainty and fear.
Harley's gaze fell to his hands again, the pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. The strength they possessed was undeniable, and yet he felt no different—no stronger, no faster. It was as if his body had been rewired, the virus unlocking potential he hadn't known existed. But at what cost?
He shook his head, forcing the thoughts aside. Now wasn't the time for introspection. He needed to find his friends, to let them know he was alive—if he could still call himself that.
Harley took a deep breath and started walking, his steps steady despite the turmoil inside. Each movement felt deliberate, his newfound strength lending an almost supernatural grace to his actions. He avoided the open streets, sticking to the shadows and alleyways. The night stretched on, the city's desolation a stark reminder of how much had changed in so little time.
As he moved, he couldn't shake the image of his reflection from his mind. The crimson eyes, the pale skin, the silver hair—they weren't just physical changes. They were a symbol of the line he had crossed, the humanity he had left behind. But as much as it terrified him, a small, defiant part of him clung to hope. He wasn't a monster. Not yet. And he would do whatever it took to stay that way.
The sound of approaching footsteps jolted Harley out of his thoughts. He froze, his body tensing instinctively. The steps were heavy, deliberate—not the erratic shuffle of the undead. Soldiers? Survivors? Whoever it was, Harley knew he couldn't risk being seen, not in his current state.
He slipped into the shadows, his movements unnervingly quiet. The virus had done more than just alter his appearance—it had made him a predator, a being designed for survival in a world gone mad. And for now, that was exactly what he intended to do.
Survive.