Ethan was willing to take Dr. Chloe in—but only if she passed a test.
He didn't need someone just beautiful or skilled. She had to prove three things: useful, obedient, and ruthless. No bleeding hearts allowed.
The first two, he was confident she had.
But the third? He had to test.
So Ethan gave her a task.
Chloe didn't respond immediately. She was clearly hesitating.
Ethan wasn't in a rush. Time was on his side. If she couldn't handle this… he'd cut her off, no regrets.
After all, he was in great health, rarely left his place, and had near-zero chance of getting injured.
But how long could Chloe last? That was anyone's guess.
The next morning, Ethan slept in until ten.
He peeled back the velvet comforter, went to the bathroom, freshened up, and then changed into his workout clothes for a run on the treadmill.
In the apocalypse, staying in shape was everything.
A strong body meant better chances at survival—and fewer chances of falling ill.
He ran for an hour, sweat soaking his clothes. Then, he took a long, hot shower.
And as the steam enveloped him, a wave of smug satisfaction washed over him.
Hot water. In this world? Yeah, that's luxury.
Suddenly—
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Heavy pounding echoed through the corridor outside.
Ethan's eyes sharpened. He grabbed a towel, dried himself off, and walked out.
He heard shouting.
It was Peter.
He pulled up the security feed.
Outside, Peter was screaming and hacking at his front door with two kitchen knives like a madman.
"Ethan! Come out, you coward! Always hiding like a fucking turtle—you worthless piece of shit!"
Ethan smirked.
"Yeah yeah. You're right. I'm trash."
"And?"
What a joke. The one on the verge of death was trying to play mind games?
He noticed Peter using only his left hand. The right was limp, barely moving.
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
Looks like the infection's spreading.
In fact, Peter's arm was visibly swollen, discolored.
Ethan strolled over to the door, hands in his pockets.
"Infection sucks, huh?"
"Back in school, my biology teacher told us about tetanus spores."
"They love warm, moist environments. And guess what? Your arm's a buffet."
"That gash of yours? Ten inches deep, maybe more."
"It's freezing outside, but your blood's warm. The bacteria? They're having a fucking party."
"Your wound's festering. It's rotting. And once the infection spreads to your bloodstream…"
Peter was trembling, cold sweat pouring from his face. Every word Ethan said made the pain worse.
Even though he knew Ethan was trying to mess with his head, he couldn't help it. The fear was eating him alive.
"Screw you! I'll kill you, Ethan!!!"
Peter had lost his mind.
He knew he was dying, so this was a last-ditch gamble.
In the apartment next door, Tony's men heard Peter's shouts.
"Boss, should we take him out?"
Tony thought for a moment.
"Didn't they say he's infected already? What, you wanna eat diseased pork?"
They all laughed bitterly and let it be.
Peter kept swinging, screaming curses, but eventually collapsed in front of Ethan's door—crying.
Ethan's voice came through the speaker:
"You're done. It's terminal. There's no saving you now."
"Why not make the most of your final moments? Do something you were always too afraid to do."
Peter wept harder. Was this really the end?
Terror engulfed him.
But right after came rage. Pure, blind rage.
If I'm gonna die… then fuck it.
He got up and kicked Ethan's door—only to scream in agony as his foot slammed into the steel.
He stumbled back home, broken.
When he returned, he found Logan hunched over, sterilizing a knife over a candle.
"SZZZZT—!"
The fat sizzled as Logan pressed the glowing blade into his own arm.
Even with a rag in his mouth, he howled in pain.
Somehow, he thought this might kill the infection.
It was sad. And utterly naive.
Wang stared at Peter, heartbroken.
"Cousin…"
She didn't know how to comfort him.
The whole place reeked of decay. People were literally rotting before they died.
The pain was unbearable.
Peter ignored her and burst into the room where Claire was being kept.
"Peter? What are you doing?!"
She screamed, backing into the wall.
Peter stared at her, bloodshot eyes locked in.
"Claire… will you marry me?"
Even on the brink of death, this pathetic simp's final wish was to make her his wife.
It was laughable… and tragically sad.
Claire's face twisted in disgust.
She pinched her nose.
"No. I won't."
Peter's world shattered.
After everything—his love, his sacrifices, even giving his life for her…
She had never cared.
"No! You love me! You do! You're mine, and if I can't have you, I'll take you anyway!"
He snapped.
If I can't have her, I'll ruin her.
Outside the room, no one stepped in.
As far as they were concerned, Claire was the reason they were all in this mess.
She deserved it.
"Ugh! Get away from me! You stink! You're disgusting!"
Claire screamed.
"You dare call me disgusting?!"
Peter lost it.
He ripped off the bandage on his infected arm.
His wound was hideous—purple and black, oozing pus.
He dug into the rotting flesh with his fingers… and shoved a chunk into Claire's mouth.
"Say it again! Say I stink! Say it now!"
She gagged violently, but Peter forced the rotten meat past her lips.
His face twisted into a maniacal grin.
For once… he felt powerful.
He had finally "claimed" his goddess—in the most sick, twisted way possible.