Morning light filtered through cracked blinds in Suite 304, painting thin gold bars across the floor. The room smelled faintly of soap now—clean, almost normal. Almost.
Kang Si-hun sat on the edge of the couch, sharpening the edge of a duplicated kitchen knife against a whetstone he'd scavenged from the professor's drawer. Yoo-jin stood by the window, pipe in hand, ribs still braced. The painkillers dulled the ache enough for movement, but every deep breath reminded her of the rat's impact.
They'd cleared two more floors yesterday—methodical, efficient. Zombies in hallways, in stairwells, in abandoned lecture prep rooms. Yoo-jin's pipe cracked joints and temples; Si-hun's desk leg finished the job. The system tallied without mercy.
[Pool: 180 Days.] [182 Days.] [195 Days.] [200 Days.]
Two hundred. A number that once felt impossible now sat comfortably in his status window. Enough buffer to experiment. Enough to risk.
Today: Finish the building. Secure every floor. Turn this concrete box into something defensible.
They started on the fourth floor. Yoo-jin took point—pipe low, steps careful. Si-hun behind, senses sharp. Two shamblers in the corridor. She pivoted, cracked one's knee, reversed into the skull. Crack. But the motion tugged at her ribs—a sharp lance of pain that made her gasp mid-swing. She steadied herself, ignoring the fire spreading through her side. Si-hun ended the second. Clean. Quiet.
Fifth floor: Empty. Doors ajar, rooms ransacked. No undead. Just silence and stale air. Yoo-jin's breaths came shorter now, each step a reminder of her limits. She leaned on the pipe more than she'd admit.
Sixth floor: The barricade.
The stairwell door to the sixth was blocked—not by zombies, but furniture. A heavy wooden desk wedged sideways, mattresses stacked behind it, a wardrobe tipped on its side. Someone had built a wall. Someone still alive.
Yoo-jin froze. "People."
Si-hun listened. Muffled voices on the other side. Low. Desperate. A child's whimper.
He rapped the pipe against the desk—once, sharp.
Silence. Then—
"Hello? Is someone there?" A man's voice, hoarse. "Please… we're trapped. We haven't eaten in days."
Yoo-jin glanced at Si-hun. He didn't move.
"We're professors," another voice—woman, older. "From the biology department. My husband, our daughter… we've been here since the first week. The food ran out. Please. We can hear you. You have food. I smell bread."
Si-hun's pack held four fresh loaves—duplicated that morning. The scent must have drifted through cracks.
A small hand appeared above the barricade—pale, thin fingers clutching the mattress edge. A girl, maybe eight. Eyes huge. Hollow. Cheeks sunken, skin ashen like paper.
Yoo-jin's breath caught. She stepped forward involuntarily, pipe lowering. Her free hand twitched, as if to reach out. The girl's tiny fingers—desperate, trembling—hit her like a gut punch. Yoo-jin bit her lip, hard enough to draw a bead of blood. Memories flashed: her own little sister, back home, probably gone now. This child… starving. Begging. She turned to Si-hun, eyes pleading for the first time. "We can't just…"
He met her gaze. Unmoved.
"Please…" the woman again. "She's so hungry. We're not asking for much. Just a little. You're students, right? You understand duty. Respect. We taught you. We graded your papers. Help us."
The man's face pressed to the gap—late forties, beard patchy, eyes sunken. Behind him: the woman clutching the child. All thin. All shaking.
The family's eyes fixed on the pack like it was gold.
Si-hun spoke through the barricade. Flat. Calm.
"Move the furniture. Let us in. Or stay there."
Rustling. Scraping. The desk shifted an inch. The man's gaze locked on Si-hun's pack. On the faint outline of bread.
"You have food," he breathed. "Thank God. Please. Just one piece. For the girl."
Si-hun tilted his head.
"I don't run a charity."
The woman's voice cracked. "We're starving. You can't just—"
"I can," Si-hun said. "And I will. Unless you have something worth trading."
Silence stretched.
The man swallowed. "We… we have information. The university's secure vault—basement level three. I have the override code. Biology department clearance. Weapons inside. Maybe medicine. We were going to get there but… the stairs were blocked."
Yoo-jin shifted. Uncomfortable. Her grip on the pipe loosened slightly.
"More," Si-hun said.
The woman clutched the child tighter. "There's a service pistol. My husband's. In our old office—Room 612. Locked drawer. We couldn't get back. Too many… things."
The girl whimpered again, tiny hand still outstretched. Yoo-jin's face twisted—she glanced away, but her eyes kept drifting back. The plea in those small fingers gnawed at her.
Si-hun considered. Vault code. Pistol location. Two pieces of leverage. Enough for one loaf. Maybe.
But the man—Professor Park, his name tag read—noticed Yoo-jin's hesitation. His eyes narrowed, calculating. "You," he said, pointing through the gap at her. "You're a student, aren't you? I recognize the kendo stance. Club member? You get it. Duty. Compassion. This man—he's cold. Heartless. But you… you wouldn't let a child die. Not when you have weapons. Force him. Make him share. It's the right thing."
Yoo-jin stiffened. The words hit like barbs. Force him? Her pipe felt heavier in her hand. She glanced at Si-hun—his expression unchanged, but she saw the flicker. Testing her.
The woman chimed in, voice rising. "Yes! Listen to my husband. We're your teachers. We built this place. You owe us. That bread—give it. Or are you as cruel as him?"
The girl's whimpers grew louder, timed almost perfectly. Parasites. Sucking with words, not teeth.
Si-hun reached into the pack. Pulled one fresh loaf—still warm, crust golden. Held it up.
The family's eyes fixed on it like it was gold.
"Code first," he said. "Then the pistol room number and drawer description. Exact. No lies."
The man rattled off numbers—six digits, then a sequence. Si-hun memorized. Repeated it back. The man nodded frantically.
"Room 612. Desk on the left. Bottom right drawer. Key under the left coaster."
Si-hun tossed the loaf through the gap. It landed softly on the mattress.
The child lunged for it. The mother caught her, tore off a piece, pressed it into small hands. Tears ran down her face.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you…"
But as Si-hun turned away, the voices shifted. Grateful to grasping.
"Wait—please! Just one more! For the child!"
"That's not enough! We gave you everything!"
Si-hun didn't stop.
Yoo-jin stared at him, following down the stairs.
"That's it?" she asked quietly, voice edged. "One loaf? You have four in that pack."
He met her eyes. Blank. "Everything has a price, Yoo-jin. They paid for that much."
She didn't know, he thought. She didn't know that those loaves cost days of his life. Four loaves—four days shaved off his existence. Why carve out his survival to extend theirs? Being good is easy… when you're not trading your own blood for it.
At the landing she spoke again.
"They're going to die if we don't give more."
"Maybe," Si-hun said. "But they're not my responsibility."
He paused on the fourth-floor landing. Looked back up the stairwell.
"Besides," he added, voice low. "They still have the code. They still have leverage. If they're smart, they'll use it."
Yoo-jin didn't reply. But the doubt lingered in her eyes—a small crack in their alliance.
Two hundred days in the pool. A vault code. A pistol location. A barricaded family who now knew exactly how much their lives were worth.
And one loaf lighter.
The building was still theirs.
For now.