The alarm wailed like a rusty saw blade, grating against my eardrums.
Clang.
The heavy thud of the iron gate sealing shut behind me was my final farewell to the world I'd known.
Chaos was the best cover—I pressed against the wall, slipping into the shadow of a building marked "General Logistics."
The wind howled through the empty quarantine zone, thick with the stench of disinfectant and the faint, metallic tang of blood.
I leaned against the cold concrete, gasping for air, my blue helmet still dangling from my fingers.
"Dangerous fugitive Su Wanzhao."
The guard's shout still echoed in my skull.
Du Qiang. Again.
Three years ago, he'd shoved me into a horde of zombies as bait while he fled with the supplies.
Now, seated at the top of the safe zone's hierarchy, his first order of business had been slapping that label on me.
He's afraid of me.
Afraid I know all his dirty secrets.
Afraid, most of all, that I'm still alive.
I pulled a damp, crumpled piece of paper from inside my jacket.
Not the map Xiao Zhou had given me.
This one was older, its edges frayed from wear.
No routes were marked—just a few names and addresses in delicate handwriting.
Lin Wei's handwriting.
She'd slipped this to me before the apocalypse, joking that if anything ever happened to her, I—the "all-powerful station chief"—should deliver some things to her grad school friends.
Back then, I'd laughed it off and stuffed it into my delivery jacket's inner pocket.
Now, it had become her posthumous wish list.
The first name: Chen Qiming. East District CDC. Bio Lab 7.
I folded the note carefully and tucked it back against my chest.
Xiao Zhou's map unfolded in my mind, overlaying the mental blueprint of the city I'd memorized from years of deliveries.
The quarantine zone had once been the municipal CDC and its affiliated hospital. I'd been a regular here, bringing late-night meals to overworked doctors and nurses.
I knew this place better than any soldier stationed here.
Which buildings had fire exits that were never locked.
Which vents bypassed the main surveillance routes.
The commotion in Ward B3 was still going strong. More armed soldiers poured out of the barracks, heading straight for the inpatient building.
Perfect.
I ducked low and darted along the edge of the greenery, bolting in the opposite direction.
The quarantine zone was more oppressive than I'd imagined.
Unlike the outside world, where zombies and survivors were clearly divided, the "patients" here still looked human—just hollow-eyed and sluggish.
They shuffled across the lawn in small groups, watched from a distance by soldiers who didn't intervene unless someone crossed the yellow line.
But the air hummed with a fragile tension, as if at any second, they might shed their human masks and revert to bloodthirsty monsters.
I avoided the main paths and slipped in through the cafeteria's back door.
The kitchen was a wreck, rotting food scraps emitting a stomach-churning stench.
I remembered—there was an enclosed walkway on the second floor, connecting directly to the CDC building.
Built back then for transporting samples and isolating patients.
Now, it was my private express lane.
The walkway's glass was coated in grime, the metal floor panels groaning underfoot.
Through the filthy windows, I could see soldiers rushing below and the distant glow of flames.
Half the reason Du Qiang had branded me a "dangerous fugitive" was because I knew secrets he couldn't even fathom.
He wanted to build an absolute order under his control—and rogue elements like me, ghosts who could move unseen through the city's veins, were his greatest threat.
The CDC building was eerily silent, the alarms from Ward B3 now distant echoes.
The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered weakly, casting my elongated, distorted shadow against the wall.
The smell of blood was stronger here, mixed with the sharp bite of formaldehyde.
Lab 7 waited at the end of the hall.
The door had an electronic lock, but with the power long dead, it hung slightly ajar.
I didn't push it open.
Instead, I pressed my ear to the cold metal.
Two voices inside.
One, rough with urgency: *"Did you get it? We're out of time! The diversion won't hold much longer!"*
The other was calm—amused, even. "Relax. Du Qiang's men have been led away. Su Wanzhao is already inside. She'll 'deliver' it right where we need her to. After all… she's the most reliable 'Reaper's Courier' there is."
My blood turned to ice.
I knew that voice.
I'd spent countless late nights listening to it recite station reports.
Heard it brimming with ambition as he laid out future plans.
But he was supposed to be dead.
Torn apart in that zombie horde three years ago, buying time for our retreat.
I saw it happen.
My nails dug into my palms, but I barely felt the pain.
So this "wish list" had never been about Lin Wei.
From the very beginning,
it had been a trap.
Custom-made for me.
And the one who'd set it—
was the man I'd thought had died long ago.
My most trusted deputy station chief.
Li Mo.