You... you're bleeding," the girl whispered.
Han-su looked down at his arm. His heart stopped. Then he breathed again. "It's not mine. It's theirs."
The girl's name tag read Ji-young. She looked like a college student. Behind her, sitting in the "staff only" corner, was another man—mid-40s, wearing an expensive watch and a suit that cost more than Han-su's truck.
"We can't stay here," the man said. His voice was steady, but his hands were tucked under his armpits to hide the shaking. "They'll break that glass in an hour. I'm Mr. Kim. I'm a floor manager at the mall."
"I'm Han-su. I deliver packages," Han-su replied, wiping the pan on his pants. "And you're right. We can't stay. But we can't leave without a plan."
Current Status Check:
Water: 50+ bottles on the shelf. (Excellent)
Food: Mostly processed. High sodium. (Bad for long-term hydration)
Light: Flashlights in the 'Home' section.
Medicine: A small shelf of painkillers and bandages.
"Listen to me," Han-su said, leaning over the counter. He wasn't a leader, but he had spent ten years navigating Seoul's back alleys. He knew how cities worked. "There are no 'Super Soldiers' coming. I saw the police precinct on the way here. It was on fire. If we want to live, we need to follow the Rule of Three."
3 Minutes without air.
3 Days without water.
3 Weeks without food.
"We have the water," Ji-young said, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength.
"We do. But we don't have the air," Han-su pointed at the glass. It was bowing inward. "And once they get in, we won't have the 'not being eaten' part."