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  Hugo sat in his dimly lit apartment, staring at the empty s and crumpled food ers that littered his kit ter. Three weeks. That’s how long he had mao ration what little he had left. But now, there was nothing—no more ed beans, no more instant noodles, not even a stale cracker to gnaw on. His stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder of his dwindling ces.

  His apartment was ohird fliving him a det view of the street below. He pulled aside the makeshift curtain and peered out. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the ruined cityscape. A few figures shambled in the distaheir movements slow and disjoiheir ragged clothes hanging loosely over emaciated frames. The sight sent a chill down his spine. He had seen them before, always wandering, opping, never resting.

  He ran a hand through his u hair, his mind rag. Going outside was suicide. The undead roamed the streets, shuffling aimlessly, their chilling screams occasionally pierg the silence of the dead city. But if he stayed here, starvation would take him before they did. He had to find food.

  Hugo had been a cook once, before the world had turned into this rotting nightmare. A good ooo. He had made a living crafting delicate dishes, bang fvors, ensuring every meal was a masterpieow, he would settle for a of cold soup or a crust of bread, something, anything to keep the gnawing hu bay.

  He looked at his phone. ion—unication had been the first thing to colpse when the virus spread. He had only 10% battery left, a small lifeline quickly draining away. The electricity had gone down a couple of days ago, though at least the water had still been running. But, he hadn’t checked since yesterday. He had filled every bottle he owned and the bathtub just in case, but now he o firm if it was still flowing.

  His eyes drifted back to the phone s. The date read: June 12, 6 PM.

  Boredom was an enemy of its own. There wasn’t a lot to read in his apartment—mostly cookbooks and recipe colles. And he didn’t want to look at those; it would be torture in his state. The only other books he had were a zombie novel—which was definitely off the table—and two books he had already read in college. He had already reread them out of sheer desperation, but they did little to distract him from his growing hunger.

  He couldn’t even distract himself with games; his puter sat useless in the er, just another relic of the world before. Bames? That was out of the question—he wasn’t desperate enough to py alone, not yet. And making too muoise was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. That left him with nothing but his thoughts, which was a dangerous pce to be. His stomach twisted in hunger, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if drinking more water would trick his body into feeling full. It was a miserable thought, but right now, it was all he had.

  As he got up, he grabbed a gss from the ter and twisted the faucet handle. A sinking feeliled in his gut as he listehe only sound was the faint creaking of the pipes—nothing came out. Not even a drip. His stomach tightened. Maybe he had jinxed himself by thinking the water was still running. Now, with what he had, he estimated he could survive for at least a month. But the main problem was food.

  He had to formute a pn. Going outside to find a store was dangerous, but starting with his neighbor’s apartment seemed like a safer bet. It was better to start close, giving himself the option to retreat quickly if needed, rather than risk venturing outside at this hour.

  After some thought, he decided his best bet was the apartme door. He hadn’t heard a sound from it in weeks, which could mean it was abandoned—or worse. But if there was food i was worth the risk. He grabbed his backpack, shaking out anything unnecessary to make room for supplies. Taking a deep breath, he secured his prized Japa knife in his belt. It was razor-sharp, well-maintained—one of the few things he had left from his old life as a chef. He had paid a fortune for it, and over the years, it had been through a lot with him. Now, it wasn’t just a tool for cooking; it was his best ce at survival.

  He picked up his fshlight, flig it on and off to make sure it still worked. With ricity, everything beyond his apartment was shrouded in darkness. The thought made his skin crawl. The silence was suffog, and the idea of stepping into it sent a shiver down his spine. He took a steadying breath, trying to vince himself to move.

  Slowly, he cracked open his door and peered into the hallitch bck. He stepped out, his footsteps silent against the crete floor. His heart pounded, his grip tightening around the fshlight as he swung its beam across the corridor. No movement. No noise. Just the stale st of dust and decay.

  He turoward the apartment right in front of his—Apartment 302. He hesitated for a moment. He didn’t even remember who his neighbor had been. W in a restaura he had always kept the opposite schedule of most people in the building, rarely crossing paths with them. Now, in this eerie sile felt strao be stepping into a pce that had once been occupied by someone he had never met.

  If anyone—or anything—was inside, he o be ready to run. His pulse hammered in his ears as he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed closed, but it was slightly ajar. He pushed it open a little further, and the stench of blood and putrefa hit him like a wall. Something had definitely died in there. He posed himself and creaked the door open further, shining his fshlight inside, ready to run. The beam illuminated flies buzzing over dust-covered furniture, but there was no sign of movement.

  Taking a deep breath, he decided to step in, careful not to make a sound. He closed the door behind him, sealing himself i least this way, nothing could sneak up on him from the corridor.

  If anyone—or anything—was inside, he o be ready to run. His pulse hammered in his ears as he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed closed, but it was slightly ajar. He pushed it open a little further, and the stench of blood and putrefa hit him like a wall. Something had definitely died in there. He posed himself and creaked the door open further, shining his fshlight inside, ready to run. The beam illuminated flies buzzing over dust-covered furniture, but there was no sign of movement.

  Taking a deep breath, he decided to step in, careful not to make a sound. He closed the door behind him, sealing himself i least this way, nothing could sneak up on him from the corridor.

  The apartment was unmistakably that of an old woman. The living room, which was visible from the entrance, was cluttered with gaudy floral aper, faded from years of exposure to sunlight. A pstic-covered couch sat in the ter, the cushions sunken from decades of use. A colle of por figurines lined a dusty shelf, their gssy eyes seeming to watch him as he moved. A ce doily-covered coffee table stood in front of the couch, its surface cluttered with old magazines, some yellowed with age.

  To the right, the kit was cramped, its walls lined with outdated wooden ets. A tacky, fruit-patterablecloth covered the small dining table, now coated in dust. The faint st of stale perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the putrid stench of decay. A sie sat abandoned in the sink, its st meal long sited away.

  The apartment had two bedrooms, both doors wide open. The stench was stronger near one of them, an undeniable mix of rot ah. Hugo's stomach ed, and he decided against cheg that room first. Instead, he turoward the kit.

  As he stepped ihe first thing he spotted was a bowl filled with hard dy, sitting on a ode to his left. The ers were faded and brittle with age. The sight was almost surreal, a small remnant of normalcy amidst the decay. He sed the room cautiously, his fshlight revealing more details—the dust-coated tertops, the worn-out linoleum floor, and a rusting faucet with a single droplet ging to its tip, as if mog his desperation. He had to stay focused. There might still be something useful here.

  He reached out and grabbed a few pieces of dy from the bowl, uning one and popping it into his mouth. The sugar was stale, but it was something, a small fort in the middle of this nightmare. Stuffing a few more into his pocket, he turned his attention to the kit ets.

  Carefully, he opehe first one, mindful of any sudden movements that could send objects tumbling and alert anything lurking nearby. Inside, only ly stacked ptes and gsses greeted him. He frowned and moved to the sed et—more dishes, untouched and useless. The third yielded the same result, only dust-covered mugs and an old teapot sitting in the back.

  He exhaled in frustration. So far, nothing edible.

  Turning toward the fridge, he hesitated befripping the handle. He already had a bad feeling about it, but he o check. Brag himself, he pulled the door open—and immediately gagged. The overwhelming stench of rot and spoiled food poured out, nearly making him retch. He smmed the door shut, turning away as he wiped his watering eyes. Nothing in there was salvageable.

  Regaining his posure, he looked around for anything else. His eyes nded oop of the fridge. Stretg on his toes, he reached up a around. His fingers brushed against something. He pulled it down—an old of chi soup. His heart leapt. He kept searg and found a pack of crackers, slightly crushed but still sealed.

  After searg a little longer, he crouched and pulled open the et beh the sink. His eyes nded on a bag tucked into the er—cat food. He frowned, holding it up. If there was cat food, then maybe the cat was still around. Just as he examihe bag, a noise came from the corridor where the bedrooms were. He froze, his breath catg in his throat. Something was there.

  Heart pounding, he took a cautious step forward, but pain shot through his foot as he smmed his toes into a piece of unseen furniture. He ched his jaw to keep from cursing aloud, the sudden noise eg in the silent apartment.

  He stood pletely still, listening. The noises from the room tinued—shuffling, a faint creak. Something, or someone, was defihere.

  Not daring to move any closer, he swallowed and softly called out, "Here, kitty…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but in the eerie sile felt impossibly loud.

  The noise from the room intensified—more shuffling, a faint thump. Whatever was inside had heard him. His grip tightened around the fshlight, his muscles tensing, ready to bolt if needed.

  Then, just as he braced himself for the worst, a soft, familiar sound broke the silence. A meow.

  His breath hitched, and he spun around, the beam of his fshlight darting across the room. The light reflected off a pair of glowing yellow eyes—wide, unblinking. The bck cat stood there, watg him, its fur slightly raised. Relief flooded him, but it was short-lived. If the cat was here… then what the hell was making noise in that room??