Life itself is meaningless.
Everyone is born and dies. Ordinary people vanish from history like dust.
But purpose—purpose—ignites existence with brutal significance.
Jeff's voice cut through the blaring alarms, cold as a grave slab. "Welcome to the end of the world. Good luck!"
The words hung in the blood-tinged air, sucking warmth from the room.
A collective shudder ran through the onlookers—scalps prickling, spines icing over.
Heat. Jeff felt it searing through his veins. His temperature spiked, sweat beading on his neck. Time's bleeding out.
While the others stood paralyzed, he moved.
The Black Light Armor—scaled plates woven with dark alloy threads—was wrenched from its shattered case.
A full suit demanded hours to don properly: helmet, gauntlets, greaves.
Impossible now.
He bundled the components with the chainmail he wore, the metal jangling like death chimes.
As he turned to flee, a shape lunged from the chaos—the overweight livestreamer.
Moving with adrenaline-fueled desperation, the man body-slammed a display cabinet.
Glass exploded.
He scrabbled inside, emerging with a crude two-piece armored vest—front and back plates lashed with rope.
Strapped over his bulk, it resembled a child's toy, his belly spilling beneath it like dough.
Unfazed, he grinned, hefting the massive two-meter broadsword Jeff had dismissed earlier.
"You saw this coming, didn't you?" the fat man panted, eyes alight with terrified clarity. "Smart move. Survival gear."
Jeff stared.
He adapted. Fast. No time to debate. Jeff's own fever climbed—a furnace in his skull. Find shelter. Cool down. Or burn alive. He bolted for the exit.
At the doors, the infected couple thrashed.
Blood streaked their faces—not cinematic "seven orifices," but a horrifying reality: crimson froth bubbling from lips, nosebleeds staining collars, eyes hemorrhaging scarlet veins.
Their limbs jerked, tendons locking. One clawed at Jeff's leg, a guttural "Hhhkkk!" rasping from its throat.
Jeff didn't hesitate. The Purple Lightning Sword flashed. A sickening thud. The grasping arm severed at the elbow.
"You monster!" The girl's scream echoed.
Jeff didn't look back.
He vanished into the street's cacophony—shattering glass, distant screams, the rising wail of sirens going unanswered.
The Underground Supermarket. Jeff's target. 400 meters.
His phone's pre-loaded map burned in his mind. Civilians staggered, vomiting blood or convulsing on pavement slick with it. Car wrecks blazed.
They're scrambling for hospitals, he knew, not food. By tomorrow, these streets would belong to the infected.
This supermarket—a fortified bunker with months of supplies—was his lifeline.
Behind him, the fat man wheezed, struggling to keep pace, his improvised armor clanking. The girl and old man followed, shock hardening into resolve.
The old man's command sliced through his granddaughter's hesitation: "We can't save them. Follow him!"
Jeff burst into the supermarket's fluorescent-lit vastness. Shelves stretched into shadows—canned goods, water pallets, medical aisles. Sanctuary.
He snatched a discarded PA microphone. His voice, amplified and icy, rolled through the aisles:
"Attention. An airborne viral weapon has been detonated. City infrastructure has collapsed. Police and hospitals are gone. If you exhibit symptoms—fever above 39°C, muscle rigidity, hemorrhagic coughing—you have 6-8 hours to find cooling agents or die. Your survival is your responsibility. Move. Now."
Panicked shrieks erupted from scattered shoppers.
"He's causing a stampede!" the girl hissed, rushing in.
The old man gripped her arm, his gaze fixed on Jeff. A spark of grim admiration lit his eyes. "Resourceful. He's culling the weak… and claiming this fortress."