Hector awoke to the haunting howls of wind battering the apartment complex, the sound occasionally punctuated by deep, rolling thunder. Rain lashed against the windows, the droplets creating a rhythmic drumming that seemed to echo his own heartbeat. The storm had intensified overnight, casting the building in dim, flickering light as dark clouds choked out the morning sun.
Sitting up, Hector rubbed his temples, groggy but alert. The muffled groans and shuffling of the infected echoed faintly from below, stirred by the storm's fury. It was both a danger and an opportunity.
"This is it," he whispered to himself. "No backing out now."
After a quick breakfast of jerky and a sip of stale water, Hector donned his gear. The tactical sling bag held spare magazines and a handful of survival essentials. His handgun was secured in a makeshift holster at his side, suppressor attached, while the submachine gun hung across his back.
As he tightened the straps, he couldn't help but reflect on the daunting task ahead. The fifth floor was unknown territory, and the storm's chaos meant the infected were likely restless, unpredictable. But it also meant their attention might be divided—a rare window to move and learn.
Taking a deep breath, Hector activated his Sixth Sense perk, a faint tingling sensation prickling the back of his neck. His awareness sharpened, senses attuned to the slightest movements and sounds around him.
"This better work," he muttered as he stepped into the hallway.
Hector moved cautiously, handgun raised, each step deliberate and measured. The storm outside masked his movements, the wind howling through cracks in the building. He reached the stairwell, its cold concrete walls amplifying every creak and groan.
The ascent was tense, every corner a potential ambush. But his perk kept him grounded, his instincts sharper than ever. Reaching the fifth floor, Hector paused at the door, listening. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional rumble of thunder.
Pushing the door open slowly, he scanned the hallway. It stretched out in two directions, dimly lit by the gray light filtering through grime-covered windows. No immediate movement. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
The air was thick with decay, a nauseating mix of musty odor and rotting flesh. His footsteps were light, nearly silent as he crept forward, his eyes darting between open doors and shadowed corners.
Halfway down the hallway, a soft groan froze Hector in his tracks. His heart pounded as he turned toward a partially open door. The sound grew louder, accompanied by a faint scraping noise.
Carefully, he pushed the door open wider, handgun aimed. Inside, a lone infected knelt by an overturned table, its back to him as it clawed aimlessly at the floor. Its movements were slow, almost lethargic—an easy target.
Steadying his aim, Hector exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The suppressed shot was barely audible over the storm, the bullet finding its mark at the base of the infected's skull. It collapsed instantly, its body slumping to the floor.
Hector stood there for a moment, his hands trembling slightly. It was the first time he'd used a firearm against the infected, and the reality of the act hit him harder than expected.
"Stay focused," he told himself, shaking off the nerves.
Room by room, Hector moved with methodical precision. Most apartments were empty, their doors ajar or broken, the remnants of lives before the outbreak scattered across the floors. Occasionally, he encountered an infected—solitary figures that he dispatched quickly and quietly, his confidence with the handgun growing with each encounter.
Hector stepped cautiously into the dim hallway, the air thick and stagnant with faint traces of decay. His handgun was at the ready, the comforting weight of the weapon steadied his nerves as his new perk, Sixth Sense, kept him on edge for any lurking threats.
The fifth floor was proving uneventful so far—sporadic infected dispatched with quiet efficiency. Yet every creak of the floorboards and groan of the storm outside set him further on edge. Then, as he approached the next apartment door, something stopped him.
It wasn't a noise or a sudden flash of movement, but an oppressive stillness. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, Hector caught a glimpse of something that gave him pause.
He pushed the door open with a low creak, his heart quickening as he scanned the room. What met his eyes wasn't a swarm of infected or the remnants of some gruesome feeding frenzy. Instead, his gaze fell on a single figure—a wheelchair tipped over onto its side, its occupant lying sprawled on the floor.
The infected woman's thin, frail arms clawed weakly at the air, her legs motionless beneath her. Her eyes were clouded, her mouth opening and closing in faint, soundless moans. Unlike the more aggressive infected Hector had encountered, this one posed no immediate threat. She barely moved, limited by her prone position and the confines of the overturned wheelchair.
Hector hesitated.
This was different.
For a moment, he didn't see an infected. He saw a person.
The woman's clothes were tattered but clean, a pale blue cardigan buttoned neatly over a floral blouse. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the room—perhaps a remnant of the life she once had. A photo frame lay cracked on the floor nearby, its image faded but still visible: the same woman, smiling brightly, flanked by two young children and a man with a warm, steady gaze.
The scene hit Hector like a punch to the gut.
This wasn't just another infected. This was someone's mother. Someone's wife.
He stood there, paralyzed, as the reality of the world around him sank deeper into his bones. These infected he was killing—they weren't faceless enemies in some video game. They were people, every single one of them. They had lives, dreams, and loved ones, now all stripped away by this merciless infection.
Hector swallowed hard, his throat dry. The woman continued her weak attempts to crawl, her lifeless eyes staring through him as if he wasn't even there.
For the first time since the world fell apart, Hector felt something close to guilt.
He crouched slowly, keeping his distance, and picked up the photo frame. He studied it for a moment, the smiling faces frozen in time. Then he placed it gently back on a nearby table, brushing away a layer of dust with his sleeve.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.
Rising to his feet, Hector moved to the infected woman. Her movements were pitiful, the last vestiges of humanity replaced by this slow, mindless hunger. He took no pleasure in what came next, but he knew what he had to do.
With a single, quiet shot, the room fell silent.
Hector stood there for a long moment, staring down at the still form. He felt heavier than before, as if the weight of this world had settled a little deeper onto his shoulders.
Before leaving, he righted the wheelchair and gently placed her body in it. It wasn't much, but it was all he could do—a small gesture to honor the person she used to be.
As Hector stepped back into the hallway, he couldn't shake the image of the woman's face, or the smiles in the photo frame. This wasn't a game. This was real, and it was cruel in ways he was only beginning to understand.
The storm outside howled louder, rain lashing against the building's windows. Hector gripped his handgun tighter, his jaw set.
He had a long way to go, but he knew one thing for sure: this fight wasn't just about survival. It was about preserving what little humanity he could in a world that seemed determined to strip it away.
Hector leaned heavily against the doorframe leading to the rooftop, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The final infected of the fifth floor now lay silent, their relentless groans replaced by the steady rhythm of the rain drumming against the building. His hands trembled slightly as he holstered his handgun, the adrenaline that had carried him through the last fight ebbing away, leaving him drained.
With a shaky push, Hector opened the door.
The cold air hit him first, sharp and biting against his sweat-soaked skin. Then came the rain—cool, cleansing, washing away the grime, blood, and exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. Hector stepped out onto the rooftop, his boots splashing against shallow puddles forming on the cracked concrete.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he breathed deeply. The air was fresh and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and asphalt, a stark contrast to the suffocating staleness of the building's interior.
He walked slowly to the edge of the roof, his steps deliberate and careful. Below him stretched the city, shrouded in mist and shadow. The storm had chased away the sun, leaving the skyline a ghostly silhouette against the darkened heavens. In the distance, flashes of lightning illuminated the towering structures, their broken windows reflecting the storm's fury.
Hector tilted his face upward, letting the rain cascade over him. It streamed down his face, mingling with the streaks of dried blood and dirt, erasing the physical evidence of his recent battles. The water was cold, but it felt good—alive.
For a brief, fragile moment, the weight on his shoulders lifted.
He stretched his arms wide, letting the rain drench his tattered clothes. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to simply exist. There were no infected here, no oppressive darkness, no ceaseless tension. Just the rain, the wind, and the distant rumble of thunder.
It wasn't peace—not in the truest sense—but it was the closest thing he'd had to it in days.
As he stood there, the reality of his survival began to settle in. He had cleared the building, secured a haven for himself. He had faced horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his life and had come out the other side.
But this was only a temporary reprieve.
The world below was still crawling with infected, its dangers multiplying with each passing day. The storm, though it provided this rare moment of solitude, would eventually pass, leaving him to face the brutal reality once more.
Hector opened his eyes, his gaze drifting over the cityscape. Somewhere out there, beyond the ruined streets and crumbling buildings, was the unknown. Perhaps hope. Perhaps only more despair.
But right now, he wasn't thinking about tomorrow.
Right now, Hector was alive.
He lingered on the rooftop for a few more minutes, savoring the rain, the cool wind against his skin, and the reminder of what it felt like to be human. Then, with a deep breath, he turned back toward the stairwell.
There was still work to be done.
Over the next few days, Hector settled into a grim but necessary routine. The weight of what he had achieved—securing the third, fourth, and fifth floors—still lingered in his mind, but the urgency had eased. For the first time since the outbreak, he had the luxury of breathing without the constant pressure of survival.
Each morning, Hector would drag himself out of bed, sore and exhausted but determined. His first task was always the same: clear the bodies. He had chosen the balconies as temporary storage, each one becoming a silent graveyard for the dead. The stench of decay was thick in the air, but it was a reality he had grown used to. One by one, he moved the bodies from the hallways and apartments, hauling them over to the open air where they could rot away from the safety of his apartment. The act itself felt strangely detached. These were people once—now nothing more than husks, victims of an unforgiving world.
Once the corpses were cleared, Hector began looting the apartments, scouring each one methodically for anything useful. It became almost a ritual, going through every drawer, cabinet, and closet, as though he was seeking something to anchor him to this reality. The apartments provided a surprising wealth of supplies—clothing, water, cleaning products, and the occasional hidden stash of food.
With the perishable items becoming scarce after two weeks, Hector made a decision. He found a few freezers in the upper floor, carefully dragging them down to the third floor, positioning them in a nearby room he designated for supplies as the apartment he took for himself had become cluttered. He powered them up, using the electricity that still pulsed through the building. As the freezers hummed to life, Hector began storing the remaining perishable goods in them—meats, fruits, dairy. The first few days were a flurry of activity as he tried to salvage what he could. He knew that the food would not last long without proper preservation, and there was no telling how long the power would remain on.
For now, the food was his priority. He set a schedule to consume the perishables first, ensuring he wouldn't be wasting valuable resources. The first bite of fresh fruit in days felt like a small victory—soothing his frazzled nerves and filling his stomach with something that tasted like normalcy. It was a small comfort, but Hector appreciated it. Every meal, every quiet moment he could afford was a gift.
His days became a quiet rhythm of eating and resting. With the upper floors cleared and the third floor secured, Hector no longer had to worry about constant danger lurking around every corner yet he continued his habitual patrols nonetheless. The halls were silent, save for the occasional creak of the building settling. The infected, for the most part, had not wandered back in. The storm had driven them off, leaving Hector with a strange peace. For now, at least, the undead were a distant threat.
He spent his nights on the rooftop, watching the rainstorms roll in or gazing up at the bleak cityscape. The world below seemed so far away from him now, and the isolation that had once felt suffocating had begun to feel like a necessary shield. For the first time, Hector allowed himself to feel a measure of relief. The world was broken, but in his corner, he had managed to carve out a fragile space of survival.
Despite this brief reprieve, Hector knew that it could not last forever. The supplies would dwindle, he would need to clear the lower floors and the longer he remained in the building, the more the weight of his isolation and worry for his family grew. But for now, he allowed himself to breathe. He took stock of what he had accomplished and prepared for the inevitable next step.
For the first time since he woke up in this dying world, Hector let himself rest.
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[Floor Secured: Basic Armor Package]
[XP Gained: 100 XP]
[Total LP: 2290]
[Level 3: 230/400]
[Warning: Infection Stage 1 Calm]
[The longer you survive, the greater the infected threat. Prepare for increased numbers and mutations.]
[World Stage 1 Calm]
[The world will respond to your survival. New dangers will emerge over time.]
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[Basic Armor Package ]
Police Tactical gear set:
Police Hemet, Ballistic Vest, Tactical Duty Jacket, Tactical Duty Uniform, Tactical Boots, Holster, Utility Belt, Gloves.
[Purchases]
Rifle Suppressor: -500 LP
4x-12x Scope: -200 LP
Rifle sling: -50 LP
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