After a long and mournful sigh, Su Jin turned and collapsed weakly, sliding to the floor as his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
All his life, he had believed himself braver than most—optimistic, even in adversity—and indeed, he had proven it true.
Even after entering the workforce and becoming a cog in the machine, he had never once bent his spine.
But this time... he had truly broken down. Utterly defeated.
His fingers tangled in his hair, and remorse surged within him like a rising tide.
I was wrong. I was wrong from the very beginning.
Had he not gone drinking with that client, he wouldn't have provoked him. Had he not provoked him, he wouldn't have needed to find another job. Had he not switched jobs, he wouldn't have been forcibly dispatched to such a godforsaken place by some shadowy labor agency.
"Is the company there... can anyone hear me?" Su Jin swallowed hard and spoke hesitantly, eyes darting toward the empty air.
But silence answered him. He was merely talking to himself.
A person's worth in the workplace is essentially their market value, minus the cost of switching jobs.
Those who grovel excessively before leadership and profess loyalty to the company only reveal their deep dependency on employment—their high cost of departure makes them prime candidates for layoffs.
And when the axe finally falls, revealing car loans, mortgages, spouses, children—these vulnerable spots only make it easier for the company to exploit them. Severance will most likely shrink to nothing.
Su Jin had embraced this theory the day he left campus, and he had dug deep into the art of managing upward. In the workplace, he had always exuded confidence—even clients treated him with greater regard.
While colleagues were laid off wave after wave, he had stood firm like a mountain. If he hadn't committed a major blunder, Old Li would never have cut him.
But this ridiculous "Heaven's Will Unlimited Liability Corporation" didn't even have a human face to speak to. There was no superior to manage, no system to navigate.
He remained slumped there as the sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon.
When the last ray of light vanished from above, the room fell into darkness.
In the gloom, Su Jin rubbed his face, then exhaled heavily once more.
He rose, flicked on the light, and though self-pity still lingered, his expression had steadied.
Without hesitation, he strode toward the bathroom.
What's done is done.
There was no room for illusion—only preparation, struggle, and survival.
Perhaps it was a blessing that the company had ceased contact. At the very least, it likely meant no one was secretly watching him.
Despite their ability to speak to him through thin air, ever since his arrival, he had felt the weight of unseen eyes peering at him constantly.
So much so that he hadn't dared to relieve himself—he'd been holding it in all day!
He wondered how those protagonists in web novels dealt with systems or ancient soul mentors living in their minds...
…
The next morning, sunlight spilled into the room, casting a soft glow on Su Jin's face.
His brows furrowed; his eyelids twitched. After a long internal struggle, he finally opened his eyes, clinging to a faint sliver of hope.
But the unfamiliar ceiling greeted him once more. He had expected as much—yet disappointment still weighed on him.
The only comfort was that the mysterious bitter greens he had eaten the night before had produced no ill effects.
Six days remained until doomsday.
He had slept in his clothes, tossing and turning all night, managing only two or three hours of restless slumber.
After a quick wash in the bathroom, Su Jin walked into the living room. He glanced at the window now covered with two sheets of white paper, then turned and sat down at the dining table.
He pulled out a notebook and a piece of bread, taking bites between scribbles.
He and Fu Qingdai had agreed: he would live across from her, and if she managed to leave the psychiatric hospital, she would find him immediately.
He'd give her three days. If she didn't return by then, he'd have no choice but to visit the hospital himself.
For now, the client wasn't the top priority. Preparing for the impending crisis took precedence.
With only six days left, he would need to stockpile water, food, and medicine.
Water, in particular, posed a serious problem—it would be contaminated and hard to replenish later.
Its consumption was high, its storage inflexible, and its quality far more vital than other resources.
Containers could hold it, but the sheer weight concentrated in small areas would exert immense pressure on the floor slabs. Storing enough would risk structural collapse. If spread out, it would consume too much space.
He had no clear knowledge of the building standards in this world—and design specifications didn't guarantee proper construction.
Construction quality didn't assure skilled labor. Skilled labor didn't mean high-quality materials. And material quality offered no insight into their current degradation.
This uncertainty was why, yesterday, he had decided to rent two units.
A normal person requires about two liters of drinking water per day. Conservatively, one ton could last a person nearly a year and a half.
But that was a theoretical figure. Under stress, injury, or unusual conditions, consumption would spike dramatically.
He also had to consider Fu Qingdai and her parents... or the possibility of recruiting others to increase their survival odds.
Two apartments. Four tons of water. Stored directly above load-bearing walls—this seemed like a safe and reasonable plan, with ample reserve.
That would require forty 100-liter barrels. Perhaps larger ones would be more efficient, with wooden planks beneath them to distribute the pressure.
He also needed water purification tablets, plastic film to reduce evaporation...
Su Jin jotted down every item meticulously. When his pen paused, he turned the page and began drafting a food storage plan.
Staples were essential. But grains would have to be purchased from farther away. He would also need cardboard boxes to package them discreetly for nighttime delivery.
If others saw him hoarding food, it could create countless problems… so the security guard at the gate would need to be "managed" in advance—moving house could serve as a convenient cover.
Staples alone weren't enough—he also needed fats and protein. Bulk vegetable oil and animal fats were acceptable.
As for protein, the ideal choice would be powdered supplements. But judging from this world, such products were likely nonexistent. The fitness market appeared to be virtually nil—he hadn't seen a single gym during his cab ride.
The next best choice was milk powder—nutritionally balanced, readily available, compact, and high in calories.
Other nutrients would need to come from tablets.
He spent over twenty minutes drawing diagrams, calculating figures.
Once water and food were accounted for, the next most critical issue was weaponry.
Industrial development in this world had clearly advanced—widespread use of firearms was inevitable.
But acquiring them was another matter entirely. He'd asked Fu Qingdai—ordinary citizens had no right to bear arms.
The channels for obtaining firearms were obscure, and the risks—both legal and financial—were far too high.
Between his savings and Fu Qingdai's hidden stash, he had counted twenty-five thousand yuan the night before.
Even that felt barely enough for supplies. Firearms were out of the question—and likely not very useful anyway.
First, he had no training—he'd waste bullets. Resupply would be nearly impossible.
Second, if gunfire attracted zombies, it would be a fatal misstep. At this stage, the greatest utility of a gun would be intimidating other humans. Better not to fire at all.
One weapon would suffice—for deterrence only.
Instead, focus had to shift to cold weapons. Longer weapons were best. Steel pipes from a hardware store could be fashioned into spears or axes.
If he could find a bow, all the better. Sheltered in a safehouse, he'd have time to practice.
And yet...
Su Jin pulled out his map, searching for the nearest slaughterhouse.
Had he still been a reckless teenager, the thought of killing something might've thrilled him.
But he was older now. He'd tasted the bitter tang of reality.
He respected the law—and had come to understand life's fragility.
He didn't fear a brawl. But to strike, to kill—even if it was a zombie—would surely rattle him.
But when the moment came, he couldn't afford hesitation. He couldn't afford to miss.
One lapse, and death would follow.
An adult's greatest virtue... is never overestimating oneself.
Perhaps his most urgent task, aside from scouting the terrain, was to pay a visit to the slaughterhouse.
To strike. To desensitize.
To survive.