POV: Xu Zhenlan
Xu Zhenlan watched the situation inside his home reset itself.
The immediate crisis was over. Wei Lingyun was inside. The door was barricaded. The zombies were on the other side of reinforced wood and furniture that would hold—for now.
But the larger reality was just beginning to settle in.
Jian Yuche moved toward Wei Lingyun with the kind of efficiency that came from training and repetition. His hands went to Lingyun's jacket first, pulling it open to check for tears in the fabric underneath. Then his arms, turning them over to examine both sides. His torso, his legs, his neck—every exposed surface checked with movements that were practiced and thorough.
Wei Lingyun stood still and let him work, his breathing still heavy from the run, his face pale with exhaustion and adrenaline wearing off in waves.
"Any pain?" Jian Yuche asked, his voice flat.
"No."
"Dizziness? Nausea?"
"No."
Jian Yuche's hands moved to Lingyun's shoulders, pressing down slightly as if testing for hidden injuries. "Anything I need to know about?"
"I'm fine," replied Lingyun with a shake of his head. "Just tired."
Jain Yuche stepped back and turned toward Zhou Chenghai. "You were in the military. Check him again. Any injuries he has, I'll give to you."
Zhou Chenghai looked up from where he'd been reinforcing the barricade. His expression didn't change. "The fuck you say? He is your man. Not mine. You called him. I didn't. I don't give a flying fuck if he falls over dead right now. You put us all in danger for him. I might as well kill him now."
"You won't touch him," replied Jian Yuche, raising his chin slightly. "He is an extra gun when you need them. Or do you really think that the three of us can take on an army of those things by ourselves?"
"Not my circus, not my monkeys. Besides, from what I saw, he is pretty useless on his own. You need us just as much as you think we need you," sneered Chenghai, straightening up and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Check him over," interrupted Xu Zhenlan, narrowing his eyes on Wei Lingyun. "We don't know what caused them to be like that, but we need to make sure that none of the blood on his body actually belongs to him. We can't afford to have one of those in here."
There was a beat of silence before Chenghai nodded his head and moved over to Lingyun.
His movements were deliberate and controlled, as if he was telling Jian Yuche and Wei Lingyun that he was only doing this because Zhenlan demanded it.
He started at Lingyun's head and worked his way down—checking the scalp, the neck, behind the ears. His hands moved with clinical efficiency, pressing against fabric, checking seams, looking for tears or blood that might have been missed.
Wei Lingyun stood still, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the wall behind Chenghai's shoulder.
The tension was obvious, but no one commented on it
He just kept working, checking Lingyun's arms, his torso, his legs. He pulled up the sleeves of Lingyun's jacket and examined the skin underneath. Checked the collar of his shirt. Ran his hands along the seams of his pants looking for tears.
When he was done, he stepped back. "He's clean. No bites. No scratches. No tears in the clothing."
Zhenlan nodded once. "Good."
Chenghai returned to the barricade without another word and Zhenlan turned his attention to the television and increased the volume.
On the television, there was nothing but chaos.
A reporter stood in front of a police barricade, her voice tight with barely controlled panic as she described the situation unfolding behind her. The camera panned to show officers firing into a crowd of people who weren't stopping, weren't falling, weren't reacting the way living people should react to gunfire.
The feed cut to another city. Another reporter. Another scene of complete breakdown.
Emergency services were completely overwhelmed and hospitals turning people away. Law enforcement collapsing under the weight of something they couldn't contain, and not even the firefighters could keep up with the number of burning buildings.
One broadcast showed a street filled with abandoned vehicles, their doors open, engines still running, belongings scattered across pavement like the occupants had simply stopped existing mid-action.
Another showed a building on fire, smoke pouring from broken windows while figures shambled through the streets below, oblivious to the flames.
The reporter's voice cracked. "We're being told to evacuate, but there's nowhere—"
The feed cut to static.
Then a government broadcast replaced everything.
A man in a military uniform sat at a desk, his expression carefully neutral, his voice steady and controlled in the way that suggested he'd been trained to deliver bad news without showing emotion.
"The military is on their way," he announced, his voice cutting through the living room as the four men turned to watch him. "Stay inside your homes. Do not open your doors under any circumstances. Do not attempt to leave. You will be safe if you follow instructions. Repeat: stay inside. Do not open your doors. Help is coming."
The broadcast looped, never returning to the original news stations.
The same message. The same face. The same hollow reassurance that meant absolutely nothing.
Xu Zhenlan stared at the screen and felt the weight of what that message really meant settle over him like a physical thing.
The government couldn't help them right now.
The military wasn't coming—not in time, not in numbers that would matter, not in any way that would change what was happening outside.
If they wanted to survive, then they had to do it on their own.
Outside, something scratched along the exterior walls.
It was a slow, dragging sound—nails or fingers scraping against brick in a repetitive motion that suggested no thought, no strategy, just mindless persistence. The sound moved along the perimeter, pausing occasionally before continuing in the same relentless pattern.
An impact hit one of the windows.
Not hard enough to break the glass, but hard enough to rattle the frame. Then another impact. Then another. The infected were converging on the house, drawn by noise, by movement, by whatever instinct drove them toward living flesh.
They weren't testing the defenses. They weren't probing for weaknesses. They were just there, pressing against barriers, scratching at walls, hitting windows with the kind of mechanical persistence that would continue until something broke or they physically couldn't continue.
Xu Zhenlan could feel it—the weight of the perimeter being tested, the barriers under strain, the realization that they were now sealed inside a structure that had become both fortress and prison.
Then he thought about Rouxi.
Was she safe? She was trembling in fear right before she went downstairs. Was she still scared?
The thought settled in his chest with uncomfortable weight. He should check on her. Make sure she was safe. She didn't need to know what was going on outside, she didn't need to live in fear for even a moment.
Not when he was there.
Not when Zhou Chenghai was there.
She was safe for now.
She had to be.
Another impact hit the window. The glass held, but the frame groaned under the pressure.
Zhenlan looked around the room.
Jian Yuche and Wei Lingyun stood near the entrance, their positions defensive, their weapons ready. They weren't relaxed, they were watching Chenghai and Zhenlan with the kind of wariness that came from being in hostile territory.
Because that's what this was now.
Two groups. Same space. But fundamentally separate.
Jian Yuche had forced his way in with a gun and a demand for weapons he believed had been stolen.
Zhou Chenghai had refused to open the door for Lingyun.
That decision hung over everything—unspoken but obvious in the way Jian Yuche's hand stayed near his weapon, in the way Lingyun's eyes tracked Chenghai's movements, in the way neither side was willing to turn their backs on the other.
They were trapped together.
Not allies. Not friends. Just people who happened to be on the same side of a door when the world collapsed.
Zhenlan looked toward the front of the house, then back at the others.
The barricade was holding. The infected were outside. The broadcasts were looping the same useless message over and over.
And they were here. Sealed in. No way out. No help coming.
He said it plainly, his voice cutting through the low moaning outside and the static from the television.
"We need to reach a truce... just for now. I think it is clear to all of us that we aren't going anywhere anytime soon."