Two PSB Enforcers from the Rapid Response Division arrived in an unmarked black van exactly ten minutes after the crash—their synchronized boots crunching gravel in perfect rhythm as they stepped over the yellow tape.
Bright barricades had already turned the intersection into a forensic diorama. A local Security Officer stood over the wreckage, his gloved hands hovering uselessly above the twisted metal.
The driver of the sports car lingered five meters away, compulsively wiping his hands on his jeans. He couldn't bring himself to look at the bloodied teenager sprawled across the roof—what was left of it looked like a soda can stomped by a giant.
The taller Enforcer—buzz cut throwing knife-blade shadows across his jaw—flashed a badge embossed with a coiled dragon. The Security Officer practically stumbled out of the way.
On the car roof, the boy wasn't unconscious. He lay perfectly still, eyes wide open and fixed on the sky like a dead fish. His limbs bent at angles that promised multiple fractures, yet his chest rose and fell with eerie regularity.
"Hey there, kiddo. Can you hear me?"
The shorter Enforcer leaned close until his breath fogged the boy's cheek.
The boy's head turned with the jerky precision of a security cam. That scent—hot blood, adrenaline, living sweat—flooded dead olfactory nerves. His throat convulsed with a wet click as salivary glands he shouldn't have flooded his mouth.
Then he bared his teeth.
Too many. Too sharp. All wrong.
So. Hungry.
But then the world tilted. Vision broke into black static. One last, greedy breath—and—
—
White.
That was the first thing he sensed upon waking. A sterile, overexposed white. His neck, waist, and limbs were secured by restraints that felt like braided steel. No give. Just the low industrial hum of the bed frame.
"What's your name?"
The taller Enforcer stood nearby, flipping through a weathered field notebook labeled Case #438-A in faded red ink.
The boy didn't answer. He smiled instead.
Not a grin. Not relief.
A predator's rictus—serene, gleaming, and terrible.
Enforcer Jason Lin snapped the notebook shut hard enough to dent the cover. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed into the adjacent office, boots squeaking on polished linoleum.
"What's with this kid? Brain damage or just playing psycho? Zero verbal response, just that… smile."
Across the desk, the doctor looked up. Light caught the edges of his rimless glasses, hiding his eyes.
Dr. Ethan S. Monroe, read the badge. Associate Chief Physician.
"The CT showed a six-millimeter epidural hematoma pressing against the right temporal lobe." He tapped the scan on his monitor. "See this shadow? Trauma here scrambles language processing and emotional regulation."
Jason grunted. "Try English."
Monroe peeled off his surgical mask, revealing a smile too perfect to be natural.
"He's glitched. The hardware's healing, but the software's fried. Pre-crash behavior was already unstable. He now qualifies as a Level 3 Threat."
Jason's eyes narrowed.
Monroe's fingers danced over his keyboard.
"I recommend forced neural activation. Mark VII neuromod. Stimulate the damaged region. Could speed recovery." His tongue flicked over whitened teeth. "Your agency can greenlight it."
Jason clenched his jaw. He'd seen that gleam before—in lab rats, right before they pressed the cocaine lever.
"Kid's healing factor is insane," Monroe added. "Fractures? Torn muscle? Already halfway repaired. But the brain…"
He mimed a small explosion. "Could take a week to self-correct."
Jason exhaled through his nose. His KPIs didn't tolerate delays.
"Get your clearance. Two hours." He shoved the chair back hard enough to leave scuff marks. "Debrief at 1000."
—
Back in the room, the boy blinked at the ceiling lights. Their high-frequency hum made his teeth ache. Another pointless human sensation this corpse-body shouldn't register.
So. Much. Food.
The door hissed open.
A new scent: antiseptic and something bitter, synthetic, but edible. Eventually.
Heat rose in his cheeks.
Pathetic. He hadn't eaten properly, and already he had preferences?
"Don't be afraid."
The voice was musical—nonsense phrased like a lullaby. Eli watched with quiet interest as the man in the white coat fitted a chrome headset over his skull. The electrodes glowed violet, same as the heat in his chest.
The device whined like a capacitor winding up.
BZZZZZT.
Electricity arced. Thought became meat under a butcher's cleaver.
Memories exploded behind his eyes—
A man named Peter Walker, shielding someone named Martin Graves
…
A woman sobbing over a coffin far too small…
Foster homes with sticky floors and hands that lingered too long…
They tasted wrong.
Rotten fruit. Poisoned marrow. Grief that wasn't his.
That boy should be dead.
Now he was Eli Walker.
The last zombie on Earth.
Every living morsel in this world?
His.
A low sound spilled from his throat—half giggle, half death rattle.
The King of Zombies laughed into the sterile air.
Dr. Monroe didn't flinch. He approached the bedside, one hand hovering casually near the panic button on his belt. Too casual. His pupils had dilated into inky black pools.
"Remember anything?"
"I… re-mem-ber…"
Eli's tongue pressed each syllable like a blind man reading Braille. His first words. Quaint. In his last life, mouths were for eating—not talking.
"Dr. Monroe?" He pulled the name from foreign memories and rolled it around in his mouth like a coin.
Monroe took one step back. Exactly three meters. Measured.
"I'm releasing the restraints. Try not to crush anyone by accident."
His thumb hovered over the release switch. Newly awakened physical-types were disasters with teeth—one twitch could pulp a ribcage.
Hiss.
The restraints slid back.
Eli sat up with mechanical grace, spine straight as a guillotine.
"What is… a Me-ta?"
The word felt alien, like ash on his tongue. The memories didn't hold an answer.
Monroe's laugh was dry. "The Enforcers will explain. First—"
He opened the door, already retreating.
"—learn not to break everything you touch."