The apartment was deathly silent iermath of the struggle. Hugo’s chest heaved, his arm burned from the scratch, and his hands trembled as he gripped the blood-smeared pan. He had won, but at what cost?

  Then he heard it. The distant echo of shuffling. A low, dragging sound ing from beyond the walls. The building, which had once seemed eerily quiet, was waking up.The noise he had made—it had been too mubsp;Panic surged through him as he stumbled toward the door. His heart pounded against his ribs as he hesitated, gng toward the stairwell at the end of the hallway. Up or down? His instincts screamed at him to go up. The roof was familiar. It had an open view, an escape. But he knew better now. The roof was a death trap, a dead end that had already killed him once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Then he heard them—zombies stirring near his apartment, their heavy footsteps dragging closer. His stomach twisted. He couldn’t go back that way. That left only oion—down. Gritting his teeth, he forced his legs into motion, stepping out into the hallway. The sound of shuffling was growing louder, spreading from the lower floors like a rising tide. Shadows moved at the edge of the stairwell. They were ing. He moved fast, ign the searing pain in his arm as he gripped the railing. He had already made it one floor down, but the danger was closing in from both dires. The open staircase loomed before him—wide gaps in the middle, a straight drop down. He wasn’t that high. If he had to, he could maybe jump. Every step sent a dull ache through his limbs, the adrenaline wearing off just enough to remind him of every injury he had sustained. His breath came in short, shallos, his knuckles white as he clutched his makeshift on. A screech cut through the air—a wailing, unnatural sound that made his blood run cold. The first zombie appeared on the nding below, its head snapping upward, milky eyes log onto him. Then another. And another. His stomach twisted. There were too many. He pivoted, ready to turn back, but footsteps thundered from above. His pulse spiked. More of them were ing down from the upper floors. He was sandwiched between them. His grip tightened around the pan. His options were shrinking fast. He could try to fight his way through, but the numbers were against him. Or he could take a risk—jump down to the floor, take the impact, and keep running. His heart pounded as he edged toward the open drop. Could he make it?There was no time to hesitate. The pounding footsteps and screeg from above and below told him all he o know—if he stayed, he was dead. Gritting his teeth, he bent his knees and unched himself over the railing. The air rushed past him in an instant before he crashed onto the ground floor. Pain exploded through his legs as he hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact to avoid breaking anything. A sharp jolt shot up his injured arm, a out a strangled groan, barely stifling a scream. He had made it to ground level—but not unscathed. His ahrobbed, sending sharp pain up his calf, but it wasn’t broken. He could still move. Pushing himself up with a grimace, he gnced back at the stairs. The zombies above shrieked as they scrambled down, their movemeid desperate.Ign the pain, Hugo forced himself forward, legs shaking as he pushed toward the exit. The main door was in sight, just a few more steps. He could make it. He had to.But his ankle had other pns. As he surged forward, his injured leg gave out beh him. A sharp burst of agony shot up through his calf as he stumbled, hitting the floor hard. His palms scraped against the cold tile, his breath ragged as he struggled to get back up. No, no, no—he was so close.The shrieks of the undead grew louder, their relentless footsteps pounding toward him. His vision blurred with panic as he forced himself upright, limping, dragging his leg as he cwed toward the door. His fingers brushed against the metal handle—he was right there. Then the weight smmed into him.Cold, cwed hands tched onto his shoulders, dragging him back with terrifying strength. He screamed, twisting, thrashing, but more hands joined, grasping, pulling, tearing. A deafening wail filled the air—not from him, but from them. Paied across his body as teeth sank into flesh, tearing through muscle and sinew. Agony unlike anything he had ever felt ignited every nerve, a searing fire rag through his limbs. He thrashed wildly, but the grip of the undead was uing. Fingers like vices dug into his arms, holding him down as jagged teeth tore at his shoulder, his side, his legs. His own screams mixed with the guttural, ravenous snarls of the horde. The world spun, his vision fshihe st thing he saw was the door—just out of reach, forever out of reach. His vision darkened as blood poured from the wounds, his strength fading. The st thing he felt was the unbearable sensation of his throat being ripped open, the wet gurgle of his final breath swallowed by the cacophony of hungry screams. Then, nothing. Hugo jolted awake, gasping, his entire body trembling. His fingers dug into the fabric of the couch as his chest heaved, his lungs desperately sug in air. For a moment, all he could hear was the echo of his own screams in his head, the phantom pain of teeth tearing into his flesh still burning in his nerves. But he wasn’t dying. He wasn’t on the cold floor, surrounded by gnashing jaws. He was ba his apartment. Ba his coubsp;Salem shifted beside him, his yellow eyes peering up at Hugo with quiet curiosity. The cat stretched, entirely unbothered, as if nothing had happe all. But Hugo knew better. It had happened. He had felt it. He had died. Again. His breaths came in ragged bursts as he clutched his face, trying to ground himself iy. How? How was this happening? The first time had been a shock, but now there attern. A loop. But this time… this time, he hadn’t woken up in the m. He had woken up exactly where he had st fallen asleep. His fiwitched as he grabbed his phohe s lighting up. June 12. Still the same day. But the time… It matched when he had dozed off before heading out. His stomach ed, nausea rising as the realizatioled over him. It wasn’t just time resetting—it was resetting to the st time he had slept. That meant every decision he made before resting mattered. Everything he did before closing his eyes would dictate what he had to work with when he woke up. His hands curled into fists as his breathing steadied. He was trapped in something far beyond his uanding, but if there was ohing he knew, it was that he couldn’t keep dying like this. The pain was real. The terror was real. If he was going to survive—truly survive—he o start thinking smarter. No more blind runs. No more rushing. He needed a pn.His mind raced as he pieced together what he khe zombies weren’t random—there were only a set number of them in the plex. Twenty, from what he had seen. He had locked one away, but he hadn't killed awo were still ihe apartments he had looted, meanieen were still roaming freely, lurking in the halls and stairwells, waiting for the slightest o e for him. And he knew something else now—he sucked at jumping. Whatever ridiculous idea he had about aovie stunts, he et it. The pain in his ahe way his body had crumpled on impact—it roof enough that he wasn’t cut out for that kind of escape. He needed a better way down, a smarter way to move through the building. He had to pn his routes, anticipate his exits. Running blindly was a death sentence.Salem flicked his tail and hopped onto his p, pressing his warm body against Hugo’s stomach. The simple weight of another living thing grounded him just enough to swallow back the fear still g at his throat. "Alright," he muttered, running a shaking hand through his hair. "Let’s figure this out." His mi spinning, w through his options. He had four apartments per floor to work with. He had looted ohe old dy’s apartment—but the other still had two zombies inside. He hadn’t touched that o, but he khere was food in there. That meant if he stayed on this floor, he had two choices—either find a way to deal with the two zombies in the apartment to get the supplies or try to break into the locked apartment. Both options carried risks, but at least he knew what he was dealing with here. Moving to a different floor could lead to unknown dangers. Hugo ched his jaw. "Do I clear this floor, or move on?" he muttered under his breath, his fiapping anxiously against his knee. There was no obviht answer. He just had to make the best choice he could and hope he didn’t get himself killed. Again. After a few deep breaths, Hugo made his decision—he would stay on this floor. He khe yout, he knew where the threats were, and moving blindly to another floor felt like an even bigger gamble. His gaze shifted toward the part of the hallway he hadn’t explored yet—the side where the zombies had e from before, cutting off his retreat to his apartment. If he was going to clear this floor, he o know what was lurking there. Gripping his pan tightly, he stood up and adjusted his backpack. His body still ached from the st run, but he forced himself forward, stepping cautiously toward the unexplored side of the floor. The hallway stretched ahead, dark and silent, the doors leading into the unknown. Hugo swallowed hard. If there were more zombies, he had to be ready. One slow step at a time, he moved forward, sing for movement, listening for any sound that would indicate he wasn’t alone. As he reached the end of the hallway, he spotted the sed stairwell. His stomach sank. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, he could hear them—low, guttural shuffling and the occasional sharp scrape against metal. That expined how they always reached him so fast. They weren’t just scattered throughout the building; they had a direct path up and down through this stairwell. His grip on the pan tightened. He could try to deal with them now, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t get overwhelmed. No, he o think smarter. He o block their path. Hugo quickly turned back, making his way toward his apartment. Onside, he shut the door behind him and sed the room. If he was going to make this floor more secure, he’d have to block the hallway—make it impossible for them to freely move toward him. He started with his kit table, gripping one end and lifting it with a grunt. The wooden legs scraped lightly against the floor as he dragged it toward the hallway entrance. His arms burned from the effort, but he pushed through, angling the table to create an obstacle. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would slow them down. , he grabbed a couple of chairs, wedging them against the table legs to make the blockade sturdier. His breaths came slow and steady, making sure he didn’t knoything over or make too muoise. One wrong move, and he’d have a horde at his door. He wasn’t do. His eyes nded on the dresser in his bedroom. That would be the real anchor of the barricade. He pressed his back against it, using his legs to push, ing it across the floor with deliberate care. It was heavier than he expected, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained against its weight. Minutes passed as he worked, dragging and adjusting furniture to create as strong a blockade as possible. A nightstand, more chairs, even a few random pieces of scrap wood he had lying around—anything to make it harder for them to get through. Finally, he stepped back, assessing his work. It wasn’t perfect, but it would buy him time. The zombies wouldn’t have a clear path anymore, and that meant he had more trol over his movements. He wiped his hands on his pants, exhaling slowly. Now, he just had to wait and see if it would hold. But that wasn’t enough. His mind raced. The sed stairwell—the one he had first used—wasn’t as much of a problem. The zombies from that side came slower. If he could block that entraoo, even partially, he’d gain even more trol over the floor. And uhis barricade, he wouldn’t o haul heavy furniture. He just needed something to jam the door shut. Moving quickly but carefully, he stepped bato the hallway and made his way toward the first stairwell. The door there was still intact, but it wouldn’t hold forever if enough pressure ut on it. He tested it, giving it a light push—it moved slightly, but it was solid. That was good. He just needed something to keep it from opening easily. His eyes sed the hallway. Then, aruck him. He hurried bato his apartment, sing the area for something useful. He needed something sturdy, something that would keep the door from swinging open easily. Back at the stairwell door, he grabbed one of his own chairs and wedged it tightly uhe handle, angling the legs to put pressure against the floor. It wasn’t perfect, but it would make opening the door a lot harder from the other side. He tested it, pullily—it held. Not perfect, but it would take time and effort for anything oher side to get through. Hugo took a step back, rolling his shoulders. It wasn’t iructible, but it was something. A little more time, a little more safety. He could work with that. For the first time since waking up, he felt like he was finally gaining some trol over his situation.