The night pressed heavy against the cabin's wooden walls. Every creak of the floorboards sounded amplified in the suffocating silence. The fire had burned low, casting faint orange glows and deep, flickering shadows across weary faces.
Soufiane sat near the doorway, knife resting on his thigh, eyes locked on the darkness beyond the slats. He had not slept. The memory of the boy's final breath—the cold certainty of his own hand—clung to him like smoke, impossible to shake.
Across the room, the boy's father, Javier, sat hunched, shoulders trembling as if grief were physically crushing him. His face was buried in his hands, murmuring prayers in Spanish that none of them fully understood. The name mattered little now; the grief behind it was a living weight.
Abderrazak leaned against the far wall, crowbar within reach, eyes sharp despite exhaustion. Calmness hid the storm within him, Soufiane knew. Amal stayed close to Meriem, whispering soft reassurances, though the young woman trembled visibly, the fear raw and unmasked.
The fragile peace shattered when Javier lifted his head. His eyes, red and swollen, no longer carried the softness of mourning. They were hard, alive with something dangerous.
"You killed my son," he hissed, voice raw, ripping through the quiet like claws.
Soufiane's grip on the knife tightened. He did not rise. "Your son was turning. He would have killed us all."
"You don't know that!" Javier spat, rising to his feet. His hands trembled as they curled into fists. "You didn't even try! You cut him down like an animal!"
Abderrazak shifted, stepping forward slightly. "Sit down. You want to make it worse for all of us? You think noise will keep the infected away?"
But Javier wasn't listening. Rage had boiled over grief into something reckless. His hand darted toward the fireplace, snatching up a heavy iron poker. The clang echoed sharply through the cabin. Amal gasped, instinctively pulling Meriem back.
Soufiane rose in one fluid motion, knife in hand. The tattoo on his arm burned beneath the sleeve—the angel, the name of his son—a reminder of why he could not falter. His voice was steady, colder than the night outside.
"Put it down."
"No!" Javier's voice cracked, his arm shaking as he brandished the poker. "You took him from me. I'll take something from you!"
The room froze in that awful moment. Everyone hung suspended between fear and the inevitability of violence. Outside, the night seemed to hold its breath as well.
Abderrazak broke the silence with a dry laugh, eyes never leaving Javier. "You're grieving, hermano, but think carefully. If you swing that thing, you'll never see morning."
Meriem, trembling but resolute, stepped slightly forward. "Please… stop this. We've lost enough already."
For a heartbeat, Javier faltered, eyes flicking toward Meriem—young, innocent, untouched by the cruelty of this world. His jaw clenched, grief twisting back into rage.
Then he lunged.
The cabin erupted in motion. Soufiane sidestepped, knife flashing as metal clashed against wood. Abderrazak surged forward, crowbar raised. Amal screamed for Meriem to get back, her voice tearing through the chaos.
The struggle rattled the cabin walls, loud enough that the night outside seemed to respond. Somewhere, faintly through the trees, the groans of the infected carried toward them—an answering chorus to the violence inside.
The air thickened with tension, fear, and the metallic scent of blood. No one could tell who would fall first—not Javier, not Soufiane, not the fragile hope that still clung to the cabin.
The shadows had come alive.
And none of them would leave unchanged.