"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." — Nietzsche
"Why?" Sloane asked.
Her voice was so faint it sounded unfamiliar even to her own ears. Blood seeped from her wound, draining what little strength she had left. Duren lowered the knife, but his grip did not relax. In his eyes was the innocent, curious, and terrifying look of a child trying to understand how a toy worked.
"What do you mean, why?" Duren asked, tilting his head.
"This," Sloane said, pointing at her bleeding abdomen. "Tricking people. Killing them. Why?"
Duren hesitated. His gaze drifted to the two bodies behind him. "I'm not tricking them," he whispered. "I just give them what they want to hear. My mom and dad… when the world was covered by that strange shadow, they changed. Their eyes glowed. Their voices started to rasp. They stopped calling me son. They only said we're hungry."
He dragged the tip of his knife across a bloodstained tile. "When I ran, I noticed something. When people are scared, they become ugly. They scream. They push. They hurt each other. But when you call out for help…" Duren paused. "For a few seconds, they turn back into the kind people from the old world. Their eyes light up. Their voices soften."
Sloane felt horror creep through her chest as she began to understand the child's logic. He wasn't just killing—he was trying to freeze the last moment when people were still good.
"When they talk, their eyes fill with tears," Duren went on. "They open their arms. They bend down to hug me." He touched the knife to the dirty platform floor. "And when they bend down… Their necks are exposed. It's easy."
Sloane's stomach twisted. Even without Narrative Sense, she could see the broken story inside this child's mind. Learning that mercy was a weakness from a ten-year-old hurt more than any stat loss.
At that moment, sounds rose from the far end of the platform—footsteps, metal scraping, someone sobbing. For the first time, emotion crossed Duren's face: irritation.
"It's getting crowded," he said through clenched teeth. "They're joining my game before I finish it."
He lowered the knife but didn't leave. He looked at Sloane's feet. "You won't scream, will you?" he whispered. "If you scream… they'll find you. But I won't give you to them."
He grabbed not her wrists, but her legs. "Don't—" Sloane tried to say, but resisting this small monster was impossible. Duren pulled with all his might. Her back slammed into the edge of the platform.
The world flipped, and Sloane crashed onto the subway tracks. Her shoulders burned, every breath stabbing into her chest like a knife. Above her, Duren's face appeared from the darkness.
"Be quiet," he said, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't want to die. I know." The crowd was getting closer. Duren smiled faintly. "We'll play again later. I'll come find you."
"There's someone down there! Run!" a man shouted. "Catch him!"
Sloane heard pounding footsteps as she lay on the tracks in pain. A child's laughter echoed on the platform.
The footsteps faded into the dark. Sloane remained there, among rust and the smell of blood. As she tried to stand, the cold blue screen appeared. This time, it was not a reward—it was a judgment.
[System Notification]
[Psychological Conflict Lost]
[Result: Victim Status Applied]
[Penalty: The Author's Authority Shaken]
[Effect: Charisma (CHA) reduced by 50% for 24 hours]
[Current Charisma: 16]
As she staggered along the tracks, one question echoed in her mind.
Why?
[Understanding of Stalker classes decreased]
Why was everyone turning into killers while she remained normal? And more importantly, was that normality her greatest weakness now?
The sounds from above had turned into a dull hum. She did not look up, afraid of seeing that small silhouette again, but Duren's voice continued to crawl through her thoughts like poison It was impossible for a child who had lost his family to end up like this.
Her foot caught on a rail. She barely avoided falling. Her lungs turned every breath into shards of glass that stabbed into her chest. Then, that clinical blue light tore through the darkness again.
[System Notification]
[Quest: Escape the Stalker]
[Description: Break line of sight and lose the pursuer.]
[Reward: ?] [Penalty: Death]
"Good God…" Sloane whispered hoarsely. "Now I have a quest too."
Her eyes scanned the walls. The torn edge of an advertisement fluttered. It showed a smiling child eating ice cream, with the words:
The future is in your hands!
Sloane let out a bitter laugh.
"Wrong child," she whispered. "My future chose to play with a knife."
She slipped into the darkness of the tunnel, leaning against the wall as she walked. The silence and the calm wind were deceptive. Suddenly, from deep within the tunnel, a sound came— metal lightly scraping against metal, rhythmic and steady.
"Where did you go?"
Her heart slammed against her chest as if trying to break free. The voice did not come from above. Duren was down here, too.
He stood on the tracks where she had fallen minutes ago. He must have shaken off the men chasing him. His small footsteps were unhurried. He approached not like a predator chasing prey, but like a spoiled child trying to retrieve a toy from under the bed. He examined the dark trail left by the blood. For now, the tunnel's darkness protected the woman from the child.
"Are we playing hide-and-seek?" Duren laughed. His expression did not belong to a child living through the apocalypse. "I'll give you a little more time to hide."
He covered his eyes with one arm and began to count.
Sloane quickened her steps. In the dark, her hand struck a door handle—one of the emergency exits. Hoping it was open, she pulled. The shrill, rusty screech of the door echoed through the tunnel like a scream.
Duren stopped counting and ran. With a child's endless energy, he would reach her within seconds. He laughed, his giggling sounding like a twisted melody in the darkness.
"That's a terrible hiding place. With so many places, you chose that one?"
Sloane stumbled inside. She did not close the door—she had no strength left. She pressed her back against greasy pipes and held her breath. The smell of blood grew heavier in the enclosed space, burning her throat.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Small footsteps stopped right outside the door. Sloane could not see through the gap in the rusty panel, but she knew Duren was there.
She moved down the narrow corridor, brushing from one wall to the other. The flashing red emergency lights revealed bloody prints on the walls. Following the blood trail, Duren slowed his pace. Among all his prey, he enjoyed this one the most. He saw no reason to end it yet.
"Let's see where you're hiding," he said softly.
When Sloane reached the exit at the far end of the corridor, she threw herself outside without thinking. Fresh air filled her lungs as she slammed the door shut. The sound echoed in the dark hallway.
Right or left?
Once again, she gambled with her life, and the system offered no help. Wherever she went, the blood would betray her. She took off her jacket and tied it around her waist. Her feet were numb, her hands lifeless, but she kept moving. She did not want to die—but if she did, she did not want it to be by a murderous child.
She turned right.
This section of the corridor was narrower, and water dripping from the ceiling made the blood trail even clearer. She pressed her jacket to her wound, feeling as if she lost another piece of herself with every step. Her legs went numb, and her mind drifted into fog.
Then she saw a faint light leaking from between the heavy metal doors at the end of the corridor. Behind her, she heard the handle of the door she had closed being slowly forced open.
Duren was there. He was not in a hurry. His voice echoed cheerfully down the corridor. "You forgot to lock the door."
Sloane clenched her teeth. When she reached the metal door, she froze at a sound from inside.
Someone was in there.
There was nowhere left to run. If she turned back, she would face Duren. Could she defeat him with her bare hands? Even if he was a murderer, was it right to kill a child? Unlike others, she had not yet lost her morality. The thought of the child made her skin crawl, but she chose to take her chances with the person inside.
She pushed the door open slightly. It was a generator room. In the shadows of massive machines stood a large man, his clothes torn and his body covered in wounds. At the sight of his size, Sloane's knees nearly gave out.
This was where she would die. The man was not alone. Four people stood opposite him. Sloane had stepped into the middle of a fight, and no one noticed her.
[Perspective triggered]
Inner monologue: Look what we've become just trying to find that kid…
As her passive was activated, her fear of death eased. She could escape this situation using her abilities. The thought she heard belonged to one of the four men, though she could not tell which. It might have been the group's shared feeling.
Inner monologue: I don't want to kill them.
Sloane's eyes widened as she looked at the large man. She had found someone who did not want to kill.
[Narrative Sense triggered]
Not only his thoughts but his emotional collapse flooded Sloane's mind.
[Empathy with the target increased]
[Mental State: Regret, blame, anger]
[Trust factor detected]
Realizing she had found someone she could trust, Sloane stood up. In a world where she could not always be good, she had to do whatever was necessary to survive. She stepped out of the shadows and faced the men, trying not to show her wound.
"Where did you come from?!" one of them shouted.
"You're looking for the kid, aren't you?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded calm.
The men glanced at each other in surprise. To keep them from suspecting her, Sloane continued: "If you go through the door I came from, you'll find him. I saw him wandering in the corridor."
They hesitated, but they clearly wanted to leave. They whispered among themselves and slowly backed toward the door, exiting one by one.
Sloane collapsed to the floor, unable to hold back her pain any longer. Through Narrative Sense, she also felt the large man's exhaustion and relief. A few seconds later, her passive deactivated, and the emotions faded.
"You tricked them easily," the man said. He was glad the situation had ended without more bloodshed, but he kept his distance from her. "How did you know they were chasing a child?"
Sloane leaned against the wall and let her body relax. If the system said the man was trustworthy, she would believe it.
"I didn't trick them," she said hoarsely. "The child was chasing me. I only did it to save myself."
Shouts rose from outside. For a brief moment, Sloane felt sorry that the child would die—but only for a moment.
[Quest Successful: Stalker evaded]
[Quest completed better than anticipated]
[Calculating bonus…]
"You're hurt," the man said without moving. "How did it happen?"
"That child," Sloane said, reliving the trauma. "I tried to help him. I almost died."
[Bonus calculated]
[Reward granted]
[Passive Updated: Narrative Sense → Narrative Sense+]
[When a target's words and intent contradict, you feel instinctive discomfort.]
[Trigger: Automatic upon interaction, no cooldown]
Sloane was glad her passive had become permanent. Her chances of survival had increased.
A first-aid kit slid across the concrete floor and bumped into her hip. She noticed the man had not left the shadows. He had not moved since she entered the room. She opened the kit in a hurry. She had never been badly injured before and did not know what to do.
Inside were bandages, scissors, small bottles, and plastic packages. Everything was neatly arranged—too neatly, as if it belonged to another world.
She reached out, then stopped. Which was for what? Which would heal her, and which would kill her?
Her fingers trembled. The burning in her stomach had turned into sharp pain. Blood seeped into her jacket. "If you choose wrong, you'll bleed more," a deep voice said behind her. She flinched. The large man was still several steps away, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He did not approach. "If you don't know," he added, "it's better to ask."
Sloane clenched her teeth. Pride was a luxury in this world. "Can you help me?" she asked.
The man paused, then nodded toward the kit. "Show me the wound." She opened her jacket. He did not come closer, only looked from where he stood, his eyes narrowing. "It's not deep," he said. "But it's dirty. You need to clean it first."
She picked up one of the small bottles. "Which one?"
"The clear one. With the blue stripe." She opened it. A sharp smell spread. "It'll hurt," he said.
"It can't hurt more," she whispered.
When she poured the liquid onto the wound, a scream tore from her throat. Her knees shook, but she did not fall. She braced herself against the wall.
"Don't stop," he said. "Flush out the blood and dirt." She poured more. The liquid mixed with blood and ran down. "Now bandage it," he said. "But not too tight. Let it breathe." She unwrapped the bandage. Her hands were clumsy. The shaking made it worse. She wrapped it once too many times, then tried to undo it. "Not like that," he said. "Don't pull. Place it, then wrap."
She slowed down and focused on his voice. Not Duren's. Not Mark's. A real human voice. Tired—but not fake. When she finished, she leaned back against the wall. Her breathing was still fast, but her head was no longer spinning.
"Thank you," she said.
He shrugged. "It's nothing," he said. "I just… didn't want you to die."
She looked up. The discomfort Narrative Sense warned about did not appear. He was telling the truth.
"You don't know me."
"Don't need to," he said. "Many people have died today."
Silence filled the room. The hum of the generators replaced it.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated, as if he had not said it in a long time. "Evan," he said at last.
"Sloane."
He inclined his head. "You're not very talkative."
She laughed weakly. "So far, talking is how I've survived."
"A child did this to you?" Evan asked, still not quite believing her. He could not imagine a child wanting to kill someone. And he was right—so had Sloane, until she met Duren. She nodded. Evan swore and wiped his face with a cloth from his pocket. "Even kids have gone mad," he said in disbelief.
Sloane closed her eyes. Her wound was clean and bandaged. She felt better, and exhaustion washed over her. After the horrors of the last few hours, she felt safe for the first time.
"Maybe it's easier to become a monster," she said.
Evan did not answer. But he did not leave either.