"I didn't mess it up."
Hastora's eyes lingered on the screen.
His fingers danced over the controller—frantic, like a fallen pianist searching for lost rhythm.
He leaned forward.
Red eyes hollowed by sleepless nights—but still sharp, locked on the screen.
One wrong move—and the character would be flung back, digital blood splattering across the screen.
"Shit…" he muttered. But he didn't stop.
His left hand pressed R2, raising his rifle.
His right hand twisted the analog stick, locking onto the target.
A virtual boom echoed as the bullet hit the in-game enemy.
"Finally! I won!"
He jumped, then flipped off his friend sitting beside him.
"Take that, you bastard!"
Francis stood, rolling his eyes.
"Relax. That's one win out of twenty. Congratulations, champion."
"Do you think I care?"
Hastora approached him.
"1,000$. Don't go back on your promise."
Francis sighed.
"Fine."
He pulled out 1,000$ in cash from his bag.
"Tch. Here, take it."
He handed over the cash.
Hastora took it, then smirked.
"You'll need at least another 100 years to beat me."
"Huh?"
Francis stared at him strangely.
"You kid. You only won once and you're already so happy."
Hastora didn't respond.
He closed his eyes and walked toward the exit.
"Don't talk too much. It's already 1 AM. We should hurry home."
Francis clicked his tongue.
Grumbling, he followed Hastora.
The door creaked open.
A large man stepped through—broad shoulders, thin mustache, thick beard.
Johnson.
"HAHAHA! Where are you guys going?"
The man, Johnson, asked.
Hastora replied,
"I want to go home. It's late."
"Come on, we can go home later, let's go get a drink first."
Johnson put his arm around him.
"You're not a kid anymore. Play like an adult."
Hastora looked down with a flat expression.
"Fine, if you insist. But I have to take Francis with me. I'm scared to go home alone."
He looked back—
Francis stood there, trembling.
Eyes pale as death. Skin cracked like dried soil.
Not blinking. Not breathing.
"Francis, what's wrong with you?"
He tried to approach him, but Johnson stopped him.
"Don't!"
Johnson's hand trembled on his shoulder. Hastora could feel it—cold, shaking.
"What's really going on?"
Hastora ran to the window.
"!!!"
His eyes widened, his muscles tensed.
"It's… a zombie apocalypse!"
Hastora turned.
"Johnson, run!"
He ran from the window towards the exit before being stopped by Johnson.
"Calm down! Don't think like a child. Zombies are just fiction."
"Fiction? You can ask Francis about that."
Francis stumbled, dragging his leg.
"Graaahh!"
He lunged, pouncing on Hastora.
He twisted away and grabbed the flowerpot—
Then brought it down on Francis's head with a sickening crack.
"Run!"
Hastora pulled Johnson's arm, then quickly ran out of the room and locked the door from the outside.
"Graaahh!"
Francis was clawing and banging on the door.
He didn't use the knob to open the door.
This strengthened Hastora's belief that a zombie apocalypse was happening.
He held the door from the outside.
"What should we do?"
He looked left and right.
"We have to get out of here."
"No."
Hastora stopped as Johnson pulled his clothes.
"There's no way out, we have to fight."
Johnson pulled a pistol from his pocket.
He handed his second pistol to Hastora.
"We're trapped. This building is surrounded by a horde of zombies."
He chuckled.
"Think of it as playing a game."
Hastora took a deep breath.
"Fine. I have no other choice."
"Good. First, we have to execute the zombie in this room. Ready?"
"Ready. He's not Francis anymore, killing him isn't a problem."
"I'll open this door, you shoot him."
Johnson prepared to kick.
"I'll kick this door in 1…2…3!"
CRASH!
The zombified Francis was flung back when Johnson kicked the door.
"Shoot!"
Hastora pulled the trigger of his pistol, aiming at Francis's head.
Bang!
Francis instantly fell as the bullet pierced his head.
Crimson blood stained the building's floor.
"It's over here. Let's get out of this building."
Johnson walked towards the lower floor, followed by Hastora.
On the lower floor, they walked slowly and silently, checking every room.
"There aren't any zombies here."
Johnson sat on a chair near the window.
"Hey, Hastora. What time is it?"
Hastora looked at the wall clock beside him.
"1:50 AM"
"It's very late."
"How do we get out of here?"
Hastora walked to the window.
"Look, the zombies are waiting for us outside. They're impatient."
Johnson chuckled, then stood up.
"How about we teach them a lesson?"
Johnson stretched.
"It's not good to keep them waiting too long."
"We'll escape using the car in the parking lot. You can drive, right, Johnson?"
"A 22-year-old asking such a simple question to a 35-year-old? You're funny, kid. I've never lost in illegal street racing."
"You talk too much. Let's go down."
They both went down to the first floor.
It was very dark, not a single light was on.
But, it also worked to their advantage.
The zombies wouldn't be able to see them in the darkness; it would make it easier for them to get into the car in the parking lot.
"Get ready."
Johnson silently stepped through the exit.
"Wait for me."
Hastora cocked his pistol, chasing Johnson from behind.
"There. Let's just get in that car to escape."
They both silently ran towards a black car in the parking lot.
"Let's—"
"Graaahh!"
A horde of zombies appeared as the car door opened.
"What the hell?! How did these zombies get inside the car?!"
"Don't shout, idiot!"
Johnson covered Hastora's mouth, but it was too late.
All the zombies surrounding the building ran towards them after hearing someone shout.
"Shit! Run, Hastora!"
Johnson ran from the parking lot, pulling Hastora's arm.
"Graaahh!"
The horde of zombies chased them until one of them managed to pounce on Hastora.
"Damn it!"
Hastora struggled to stand as one zombie sat on top of him.
"Johnson, shoot this one!"
"…"
"Johnson?"
Hastora reached for the pistol in his pocket and shot the zombie sitting on him.
He looked behind him.
"!!!"
He froze, seeing that Johnson had turned into a zombie.
He wanted to escape as quickly as possible, but the horde of zombies managed to pounce on him and bite his neck.
His skin split like overripe fruit.
His eyes turned to pale glass.
Then came the darkness—soft, cold, and eternal.
The world faded.
The last thing he saw—his own blood painting the world red.
Ding!
[You have died.]
[But your story isn't over.]
[Initializing soul transfer...]
[Destination confirmed: Echoes of an Unwritten Fate — recalibrating existence...]
To be continued in the next chapter…