The world outside didn't change when Elias opened the garage door. The sky stayed sick with gray, choked by clouds that had forgotten how to rain properly. The streets remained littered with the wreckage of what used to be—burned-out cars turned into metal skeletons, shopping carts left mid-motion, windows shattered like glass had flinched at the sound of the first scream and never healed since. But something inside Elias had shifted. There was a stillness now, not peace, not comfort—just a calm born from resolution. He was going to the checkpoint. That was the choice. That was the plan. If it was a trap, so be it. If it was salvation, he'd find out. If it was nothing—just an old lie inked in red on a crumbling map—then at least he wouldn't spend the rest of his days staring at a garage wall wondering what might've been.
He checked Max before he left. The boy was breathing easier today, though his skin was still pale and drawn, lips dry, lashes stuck together like someone barely clinging to dreams. Elias didn't wake him. He just stood there for a while, watching his chest rise and fall under a blanket of rags. Then he placed a full bottle of water and the last protein bar beside him. His fingers lingered there—on the wrapper. It felt too final. But he pulled his hand back and turned away. No time for goodbyes. Not anymore.
He packed lightly: a crowbar, two knives, three bandages, the remainder of his clean water, and the rolled-up map. The system didn't speak. It only hummed. Quietly. Respectfully. Or maybe waiting to judge him after.
The streets narrowed as he moved north. Buildings leaned over like old men bowing their heads to secrets only the dead could answer. Fire marks painted the edges of brick and stone. Graffiti stretched across alley walls in warnings written by hands that were probably bones now. "STAY AWAY." "DEATH WALKS HERE." "THEY LEARN." Elias read each one with the same steady gaze, memorizing the fear. Not because he believed it would save him—but because every bit of paranoia he collected added another layer to his armor.
About two kilometers in, he saw the remains of a convoy. Four military jeeps in a crooked line, one flipped on its side, doors hanging open, tires slashed, no bodies. Blood, yes—long dried into the pavement in shapes that once meant panic. But no bodies.
He crouched near the first vehicle, kept his head low, eyes scanning windows and rooftops. Still quiet. Still alone. The system pulsed once. Not a full notification, just a shift in its pressure—like someone breathing behind him.
Passive Warning: Unregistered heat signatures detected within 500 meters.
Unknown classification. Recommend stealth approach.
He didn't reply. Just slid down the street, keeping to cover, moving like water that refused to reflect the sky.
The checkpoint came into view thirty minutes later.
It was worse than he expected.
The fence was half-down, barbed wire torn like something massive had pulled through with claws. The outpost tower—only one—was burned at the top, metal melted into slag, still holding its shape like a melted candle pretending to be a weapon. The main gate stood crooked, one side half-closed, the other hanging off a rusted hinge. The place had been dead a long time.
But someone had tried to hold it.
Elias stepped through slowly. Past a row of sandbags. Past a blood trail that dried into a line heading toward a side barrack. He kept his crowbar ready, hand tight around the grip, breath shallow. The wind was wrong here. Too sharp. Too still.
And then he heard it.
Not a growl. Not a snarl.
A click.
Not mechanical. Organic.
Like someone cracking their knuckles over and over—but wet. Sticky. Familiar.
He dropped instantly to the ground and rolled behind an overturned crate just as something emerged from the shadows beneath the barrack's stairs.
It was a zombie. At least, it had been. Once.
But now it stood too tall, its arms longer than human, spine bent in jagged shapes, head twitching like a bird watching prey. Its skin was stretched too tight, almost waxy, and where its mouth should've been was a mess of bone and ragged jawline, as if it had torn off its own lips chewing through something bigger than it could swallow.
It clicked again. Loud this time. Then again. A pattern. A rhythm.
Elias didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The thing stepped closer. Sniffed.
Its ears—if they could be called that—twitched. Its head jerked toward his hiding place. Elias felt the air freeze in his lungs. He counted seconds in his mind.
One. Two.
It moved.
Fast.
He leapt sideways just as its arm smashed into the crate, splitting the wood into flying splinters. He hit the ground, rolled, struck with the crowbar—but it missed. The thing moved like it knew the attack was coming before Elias even started the swing.
"Too smart," he muttered. "Too fast."
The system flared.
Emergency Skill Trigger: [Tactical Instinct] Lv.1
Duration: 30 seconds. Cost: 50 Coins.
He didn't think—just accepted.
The world slowed.
Not literally—but in his mind. He could see the way its leg tensed before it lunged. The twitch of its fingers before the slash. He ducked low, drove the crowbar into its side, and heard bone crack. It shrieked. Not human. Not animal. Something else.
He followed the blow with a kick to its knee—unbalanced it—then grabbed a piece of broken metal from the debris and drove it through the side of its neck.
It didn't die quietly.
But it died.
And Elias stood over the body, panting, blood on his hands, every nerve in his body screaming at him to run, to scream, to throw up, to do something other than stand there. But he didn't.
Because he couldn't afford to be that person anymore.
The system pinged.
Enemy Defeated: [Mutated Stalker]
+100 Coins
+New Entry Unlocked: Bestiary - Mutated Classes
[Item Drop: Filthy Tendon (Crafting)]
He didn't touch it. Not yet.
The checkpoint wasn't safe. Not entirely. But it was empty now. And if something as dangerous as that creature had claimed it, and no more had shown up, maybe it meant this place had value. Mutants didn't linger without reason.
He moved quickly through the barracks. Found old supplies. Ration boxes. A water filter. A working solar battery pack.
In a side room, he found a journal.
Pages torn. But a few entries still readable. One said:
"They said this place would hold. That it was reinforced. That they had backup. They lied."
Another, scratched in with less control:
"He changed. I shot him twice. He didn't fall. Don't trust the slow ones. They remember."
That last line stuck with Elias.
He carried the journal, the supplies, everything he could pack. And before he left the checkpoint, he stood in the tower and looked out over the city.
It stretched forever.
Broken. Sick.
And yet…
Somewhere out there, others might be alive. Struggling. Choosing. Failing. Surviving.
He felt the system buzz again.
A new window appeared.
Quest Tree Unlocked: Shelter Restoration
Stage 1: Return with Power Supply
Reward: Unlock Shelter Crafting Bench + Random Upgrade
He smiled. Just barely.
Then turned toward home.
And walked.
The sun still didn't rise.
But something in him did.