Jiya had been bitten. The moment Ron saw the blood darkening, he'd known. Her pulse had been erratic. Her eyes foggy. Priya had checked the wound, whispering a curse. It was a bite.
"she has ten hours," he had whispered, her voice breaking. "Maybe less."
There were no second chances now. No time to hope. Only one way left: kill Jonathan and take his orb.
They had gathered everything they could carry—two pistols, a fire axe.
The streets were nearly silent. Ron had never seen it like this. No gurgling groans from the undead. No flocks of crows screaming into the sky. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. As if the city itself knew this was the edge.
Five Hours Left
They reached the outer perimeter of the shelter—a fortress of stacked sandbags, rusted cars, and makeshift metal sheets. It had once been a school, maybe. The signage was gone. Bullet holes pocked every wall.
Ron raised his binoculars from a shadowed alley and scanned the entrance.
Two guards. Leather armor, rifles, relaxed posture. Jonathan's men.
"He won't expect us today," Priya said quietly. "He'll think we'd run."
Ron nodded. "Then let's be ghosts."
They moved. Through the ruins of a bakery, past the corpse of a giant insectoid mutant rotting in the snow. They reached the blind spot by the eastern wall.
Ron signaled three fingers. Priya readied her pistol.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Ron lunged from the shadows, axe flashing like a bolt of lightning. The first guard crumpled before his scream left his throat. Priya shot the second before he could raise his weapon—her aim calm, deadly.
They dragged the bodies behind the gate and slipped inside.
Four Hours Left
The inside of the shelter was worse than Ron imagined.
Children huddled in corners with vacant eyes. Women sat in silence, their faces bruised, hollowed. Men—Jonathan's followers—strode between them like they owned everything. There were chains on the walls. Bunk beds with locks.
Priya's hand trembled. "We burn this place down when it's over."
Ron didn't reply. But his eyes said the same.
They moved through the hallways like shadows, sticking to corners. The cores they'd consumed gave them an edge—heightened senses, faster reflexes—but they were still only human.
Except they weren't quite human anymore.
Ron had evolved. Demi-human, Level 1. His third eye—an ethereal power that pulsed at the center of his forehead—could now sense the weak points in others. Flaws in movement. Gaps in defense. Cracks in resolve.
And Priya was no longer just a survivor. Her own evolution had given her speed and strength beyond anything Ron had seen from her before. Her eyes burned with focus. The recoil of her pistol meant nothing. She moved like someone dancing through a dream of violence.
They found Jonathan on the top floor. His room had once been the principal's office, now converted into a grotesque throne. Gold blankets. Cigarette smoke. Shelves lined with canned food, medicine, and liquor.
Jonathan sat reclined, barefoot, watching two of his men clean their rifles.
When Ron stepped inside, he didn't wait.
The fire axe flew.
Three Hours Left
Jonathan didn't dodge.
He pulled.
The axe stopped in mid-air, twisted, and flew backward—slamming into the far wall with a crash. The pressure in the room suddenly spiked. The air itself thickened.
"Gravity manipulation," Priya gasped.
Jonathan rose with a grin. "You're earlier than I expected."
Ron didn't hesitate. He charged, even as his boots dragged in the crushing force. Every step was like wading through wet cement. His body screamed. But the third eye opened.
Jonathan's movements glowed with cracks—flashes of red against the haze. A weak shoulder. A misaligned stance. A pulse that jittered when his power spiked.
Ron aimed for those weaknesses.
They crashed into each other. Ron's fist connected with Jonathan's ribs, and the villain grunted. But in return, Ron was lifted into the air—and slammed against the ceiling like a rag doll.
Priya shot forward. She moved too fast to catch. Her blade flashed toward Jonathan's throat—but the air twisted, and she was flung sideways, smashing into the bookshelf.
Jonathan chuckled. "Demi-humans. So proud. So predictable."
Ron coughed blood. Got up again.
"You touched her name," he growled. "You looked at her like prey."
The fire axe scraped across the floor.
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "So what?"
And that was when Ron struck.
He feinted high—but his third eye saw the shoulder twitch, the leg stagger. The real opening was lower. He rolled, came up, and drove the axe into Jonathan's inner thigh—piercing flesh just behind the knee.
Jonathan screamed.
Priya lunged. Her knife found his ribs.
He flailed, gravity distorting the air—but now it worked against him. He slipped on his own blood. The pressure cracked the floor tiles.
Ron swung again—this time into Jonathan's arm. Bone snapped. Power flickered.
The villain fell to his knees.
One last swing.
And silence.
Two Hours Left
They didn't run. They sprinted.
Priya held the orb to her chest, as if shielding it with her own soul. Ron bled from three wounds—arm, ribs, thigh—but didn't stop. Couldn't.
They reached the old building by dusk. The sun was gone. And the cold was worse than ever—like the earth itself had turned against them.
The sixth floor was silent.
Too silent.
Puja met them at the door. Her face was pale. Her lips trembling.
"Ron…" she whispered. "You're too late."
He pushed past her.
And saw the trail of blood.
The shattered door.
The overturned mattress.
Shreya was on the floor, sobbing, whispering jiya's name over and over.
And in the far corner, curled up against the wall—
Jiya.
Or what was once Jiya.
Her eyes had turned.
Clouded.
Mindless.
A low, inhuman groan came from her throat.
Ron collapsed to his knees.
Priya dropped the orb.
Too late.