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The apartment wasn't occupied by just the man. Jin's gaze shifted past him, catching sight of a woman standing deeper in the room. She had wavy hair and thin lips, her eyes flickering between the group and the corpses in the hallway.
"Are you going to escort us downstairs?" the woman asked, her voice carrying an edge of assumption. "Just wait, I'll pack some things."
She had heard Jin's unfinished sentence—Let's start with this room—and had drawn her own conclusion. "We've been waiting a day for someone to come. Finally."
"We're not rescue personnel," Jin said.
Both of them froze. The man's expression shifted. "Then who are you?"
"Upstairs neighbors." Jin's voice was flat. "After a full day, you still haven't figured out the situation?"
He had little patience for their tone. They carried themselves with an expectation of service, as though the world still owed them something.
The man with glasses—and his companion—took a closer look. The three of them wore dark jackets, but they were clearly not uniforms. The couple's posture shifted, the deference draining from their faces.
The man cleared his throat. "So you're neighbors, then… those creatures you have—did you bring them? You're not government?" He paused, his eyes narrowing with calculation. "Is the Crimson Book real?"
He was already working the angles. If these people can control monsters, maybe I can too. Then I'd be safe.
"Kill a Zombie yourself," Jin said. "The contract will form."
The man's face tightened. The idea of killing one of those things with his own hands was clearly not what he wanted to hear. His eyes darted between Jin and the Summons, then back to his wife.
He leaned in, lowering his voice as though they were negotiating a business deal. "Young man, asking me to kill monsters… that's a bit much, don't you think? Tell you what—I'll give you five thousand cash, and a gold ring. You catch two of those things for us. Fair trade."
A cold smile flickered at the corner of Jin's mouth. The man was clever enough to realize cash might be worthless but gold had value. But he was also stupid enough to think he could still buy his way through the end of the world.
Jin turned to Mark. "Standard rate. Collect the cleaning fee."
Mark grinned, though there was no humor in it. He stepped toward the man. "We cleared the Zombies on the fifth floor. That keeps you alive. So according to the rules, we take half your food and medicine. If you don't have enough, you make up the difference with other useful supplies."
"What?!" The man's voice shot up. He pointed at Mark, indignant. "You—you're robbing us! If you won't help, fine, but this—"
His wife joined in, shrill. "You killed those monsters! That has nothing to do with us! Why should we pay for something we didn't ask for?"
They both started pushing against the door, trying to slam it shut.
Bang.
Jin's Summon drove its fist into the metal door. The impact left a deep dent, and the force threw both of them backward onto the floor. The man's glasses skidded across the tiles.
"Go in and collect it," Jin said.
Mark nodded. He and Lisa stepped over the threshold, moving through the apartment to gather supplies. The couple watched from the floor, silent now, their faces pale. But beneath the fear, Jin could see resentment kindling in their eyes.
He didn't care.
The fee was reasonable. A safe floor in exchange for half their supplies—anyone with sense would see the value. As for offending them, Jin wasn't worried. He wouldn't kill without cause, but if they were stupid enough to try something, he wouldn't hesitate.
Click.
The sound was faint—a door opening somewhere nearby. Jin's head turned. His Summon shifted, its stance widening, ready.
Room 7504. The door was cracked open, a sliver of darkness behind it.
A man stepped out slowly, hands visible. He was in his late forties, with a buzz cut and a square face softened by middle age. A thick scar ran along his forearm. His eyes were alert, assessing, but there was something else in them—a heaviness, a sleepless weight.
"Easy," he said. "I'm not looking for trouble."
Jin studied him. "What do you want?"
"Name's Simon." He kept his voice low, calm. "I heard what you said to that couple. Saw how you handled those things in the hallway." He glanced at the dented door, then back at Jin. "You're capable."
Simon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I'm not going to argue about the cleaning fee. Half my supplies are yours—fair enough. But I'd like to make a deal with you, if you're willing."
Jin waited.
Simon's jaw tightened. For a moment, something raw passed over his face—grief, or desperation, held in check by sheer will. Then he spoke.
"Before I make my offer, I need to know something." He looked directly at Jin. "Is there any way to reverse what happened to them? The ones who turned."
The question hung in the stale air.
Jin's expression didn't change. "Not that I've seen. Once they change, they're gone."
Simon's shoulders dropped a fraction. He stared at the floor for a long moment, and when he looked up again, his eyes were wet.
"My son," he said. "He's seventeen. We were in the apartment when the fog came. When the red light hit…" His voice cracked. "He screamed. I held him, tried to—but his body started changing. His bones, his skin. I locked him in his bedroom before he could get out."
He swallowed hard. "That was yesterday. I hear him sometimes. Scratching. Growling." His hand clenched into a fist. "He's still in there."
The memory surfaced unbidden, vivid behind his eyes:
The red light bleeding through the windows, staining everything the color of a wound. His son, Marcus, doubled over on the living room floor, hands clawing at his own face. The sound of bones realigning—a wet, grinding crackle that Simon would never forget. Marcus's fingers elongating, nails darkening into talons. His back arching at an impossible angle.
"Dad—Dad, it hurts—"
Simon had grabbed him, tried to hold him still, but Marcus's strength had already surpassed human. A wild swing sent Simon crashing into the bookshelf. When he looked up, his son was rising, spine hunched, skin paling to corpse-gray. Those eyes—still Marcus's eyes for one more second—fixed on him with terror.
"Lock the door," Marcus had gasped, his voice already distorting, splitting into something guttural. "Dad, lock—please—"
Simon had done it. He'd stumbled backward, slammed the bedroom door, and slid the deadbolt home. Then he'd stood there, listening to the sounds of his son's humanity being unmade on the other side. The screams turned to snarls. The snarls turned to silence. Then came the scratching.
He hadn't slept since.
"I've been waiting," Simon said, his voice low. "Hoping someone would come. Someone who knew more than me. Hoping there was a way to bring him back." He looked at Jin's Summon, then at Mark and Lisa's creatures. "You have these things. You made contracts. If I kill my son… can I bind him? Would that bring him back? Would he still be… him?"
Jin understood now. The heaviness in Simon's eyes wasn't just exhaustion. It was a father carrying the weight of his child's death, unwilling to let go.
"The Summon is not the person," Jin said. "It's a copy. The skill, the form. But the mind—the person you knew—it's gone."
Simon flinched as though struck.
Mark and Lisa had emerged from the couple's apartment, supplies in hand, and had fallen silent, watching.
Simon stood very still. Then he nodded, slowly, as if accepting a death sentence. "Then I'll still do it. I'll kill him myself. Better that than leaving him like… that." He looked at Jin. "But I need your help. I'm not a coward, but I'm not stupid either. I've seen what those things can do. If I go in there alone and it goes wrong…" He didn't finish the sentence.
"What are you offering?" Jin asked.
Simon straightened. "I have keys to two trucks in the underground garage. Crowbars, wrenches, tools—better than kitchen knives. You can have one truck and the tools. And I know this city. I ran logistics for twenty years. Warehouses, bulk goods markets, distribution centers. I can get you to supplies you won't find in apartments."
He paused, meeting Jin's eyes. "And if you need someone to do something hard—something you don't want to do yourself—I'll be that man. I've already lost my son. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty."
Jin saw it then: a man on the edge, willing to trade anything, do anything, because the thing he'd lived for was already gone. That kind of desperation was dangerous. But it was also useful.
"Alright," Jin said. "We'll help you with your son. Then we clear the rest of the building. And you help us find supplies."
Simon let out a breath, something like relief breaking through the grief. "Thank you."
The couple's door slammed shut as Mark and Lisa stepped back into the hallway, arms full of canned goods and rice. The man with glasses didn't dare look at them.
Simon watched them go, then glanced at Jin. "You work fast, brother."
Jin didn't respond. He was already thinking about the room down the hall, the son locked inside, and the kind of choice that no father should ever have to make.