Date: April 18th, 2027
Place: New York City – Lower East Side – Elias' Apartment Building
---
The hammer felt heavier than it had the night before.
Every swing, every block, every push—it all built up. My forearm throbbed from the bite I'd taken, the shallow wound raw and burning beneath the makeshift bandage Claire had wrapped. My ribs ached where claws had raked me. Blood had dried across my shirt, stiff and uncomfortable.
I'd ignored it through the night. Ignored it through the morning. But as we pressed deeper into the apartment building, silence closing in on us like a coffin, I felt the weight catching up.
Claire noticed before I admitted it.
"Elias," she whispered, her voice soft but sharp, "you're limping."
I forced a breath through my teeth. "I'm fine."
"You're not."
Her hazel eyes locked onto me, wide but steady. She was trembling, yes, but not from panic. Not anymore. This was focus. Concern.
"I have something," she said, glancing at the glowing panel that still hovered faintly at her side. "It says I can heal. I… I want to try."
I shook my head. "You don't know how it works."
Her jaw tightened, a flicker of stubbornness breaking through her fear. "Then we find out. Before you collapse."
I hesitated. The weight of the hammer pulled at my arm, dragging it down. My chest burned with each breath.
She was right.
"Fine," I said finally.
She swallowed, stepping closer. Her small hands hovered uncertainly over my arm. "I… I just say it? The name of the skill?"
"Try."
Her lips parted, trembling, then firmed. "Minor Heal."
The air shimmered.
Her hands glowed faintly, a soft golden light spilling from her palms. It wasn't bright—no blinding miracle—but enough to cast shadows across my bloodied shirt. The warmth spread instantly, sinking into my skin.
I hissed as the pain dulled, then vanished. The bite mark on my arm closed slowly, the skin knitting back together until only a faint scar remained. My ribs loosened, the ache fading into nothing.
The HUD flared.
[HP Restored: +35]
[Current HP: 121 / 140]
Claire Thompson – MP: 30 / 40
I exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. The hammer no longer dragged at my arm. The burning in my chest eased.
It worked.
I looked at her. She was pale, her breathing uneven, sweat dotting her brow.
"You okay?" I asked.
She nodded quickly, clutching her hands to her chest. "It felt like… like something was pulled out of me. Drained." She looked at her HUD again, eyes narrowing. "My mana dropped."
"It worked," I said simply.
She blinked, then gave the smallest, trembling smile. "I healed you."
The light in her eyes was fragile, but real.
"You did," I said.
I didn't tell her how much it meant. I didn't say that, for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt something close to hope. Words weren't needed. My steady stance, my eyes meeting hers—that was enough.
---
We moved on.
The deeper we went into the building, the more it felt like a grave. Doors hung half-open, apartments ransacked in panic. A stroller overturned in one hallway, a doll lying face-down in a puddle of blood. Phones buzzed faintly from dead batteries, their screens still cracked with missed calls.
Claire stayed close, her stake in hand, eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow. But there was something different in her steps now. Less hesitant. More aware. She kept glancing at me, not just for reassurance, but as if to remind herself she had a role too.
We stopped at one apartment door left ajar. Blood trailed from the entrance into the hall.
I raised a hand, motioning for silence.
We stepped inside slowly.
The living room was a wreck. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor. The walls were streaked with claw marks, and the air stank of iron.
In the kitchen, a man lay slumped against the counter. His chest was torn open, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Claire gasped softly, covering her mouth with her sleeve.
I moved closer, hammer ready. The man didn't twitch. Didn't breathe. He was gone.
Claire's eyes darted to the table beside him. A photo frame lay shattered, the glass cracked. She crouched, picking it up carefully. Inside was a family portrait—him, a woman, and a little boy no older than six. All smiling.
Her lips trembled. She set the frame back down gently, almost reverently.
"This is what's left," she whispered.
I didn't speak. My grip tightened on the hammer.
We stepped back into the hall.
---
Two floors down, we heard them again.
Groans. Shuffling.
This time, closer.
Claire froze, pressing her back against the wall. Her hazel eyes darted to me, wide.
I raised the hammer, motioning her behind me. The shadows shifted at the far end of the hall.
Three of them staggered into view.
They shrieked, eyes glowing pale.
"Stay behind," I murmured.
She swallowed hard, her knuckles white around the stake.
The first lunged. My hammer cracked across its skull, the impact spraying gore against the wall. The second rushed in immediately, claws raking across my arm.
[HP -8]
[Current HP: 113 / 140]
I hissed, shoving it back. The third closed in, jaws snapping.
Claire's eyes darted between them. I saw the fear, the hesitation. But then she stepped forward, raising her stake.
The zombie lunged for me—
—and Claire struck from the side, the stake plunging into its neck. The creature jerked, shrieking.
I finished it with a hammer blow, crushing its skull.
The last one came again, claws slicing across my side.
[HP -12]
[Current HP: 101 / 140]
Blood soaked my shirt. My vision swam.
"Minor Heal!" Claire cried, her voice cracking.
Warmth rushed into me again. The pain dulled instantly, the wound closing beneath the torn fabric.
[HP Restored: +30]
[Current HP: 131 / 140]
Claire Thompson – MP: 20 / 40
I roared, swinging the hammer in a brutal arc. It connected with the zombie's temple, exploding bone and brain matter against the wall.
Silence fell again.
Claire staggered, her face pale, sweat streaking her forehead. But her eyes—her eyes burned.
"I did it again," she whispered, half to herself.
I exhaled slowly, nodding once.
"You kept me alive," I said.
This time, I didn't add anything more. I didn't have to.
She understood.
---
The silence after battle always hit harder than the fight itself.
The hallway reeked of rot, black blood seeping into the carpet, walls streaked with gore. My hammer dripped steadily, my arms trembling from exertion.
Claire stood a few steps behind me, chest heaving, sweat beading on her pale face. Her small hands clutched the bloodied stake so tightly her knuckles were white.
She had healed me again. Saved me again.
The System answered.
[Combat Contribution Detected.]
[Healing performed: +20 Essence.]
[Claire Thompson – Total Essence: 30]
Claire gasped softly, her eyes flicking to the air. "It… it gave me something."
"What?" I asked, still steadying my breath.
"Essence," she whispered. "It says… I earned twenty. From healing you."
My jaw tightened. So it wasn't just killing. The System was watching everything—every swing, every scream, every act of survival. Even keeping someone alive was currency now.
And maybe that was the point.
"You deserve it," I said simply.
Her hazel eyes snapped to mine, wide with disbelief. "But I didn't… I didn't kill anything. You did all the fighting. I just—"
"You kept me standing," I cut in, my voice firm but quiet. "Without you, I'd be on the floor right now. Dead. Don't ever call that 'just.'"
Her lips parted, trembling. She blinked rapidly, tears threatening again.
But this time, she didn't cry.
Instead, she nodded slowly, clutching her stake tighter.
---
We ducked into a nearby apartment to breathe.
The place was eerily intact compared to the others. A child's toy sat abandoned on the carpet. A TV screen cracked with a frozen image: a cartoon paused mid-frame. Bowls of cereal lay on the table, milk long curdled.
The family here had left in a hurry. Or hadn't left at all.
I leaned against the wall, forcing air into my lungs, the hammer resting against my leg. Every part of me ached, but the wounds were gone. Claire's glow still lingered faintly in my skin, like a phantom warmth.
She sat across the room on the couch, her knees pulled to her chest. The faint golden light of her HUD reflected in her hazel eyes as she studied it.
"…It says I can put points into my stats," she murmured. "Like you."
"Then do it."
She hesitated. "But what if I choose wrong?"
"There's no wrong," I said. "Only alive or dead. Choose what keeps you alive."
Her gaze lowered. Her finger twitched through the HUD, and the light flickered.
[Claire Thompson has allocated: +2 INT, +1 PER, +2 END.]
Intelligence: 9 → 11
Perception: 8 → 9
Endurance: 6 → 8
She exhaled shakily. "It feels… different. Like I can think clearer. Like I could… heal more if I had to."
"That's good," I said.
Her lips pressed tight. "But it also feels wrong. I just… used someone else's death. Someone else's pain. To get stronger."
The room was quiet, save for the faint groan of pipes in the walls.
I crouched in front of her, my hammer resting on the floor.
"You didn't take their pain," I said quietly. "You turned it into something that saves lives."
Her eyes flicked up to mine, shimmering.
She swallowed, then nodded again. A fragile nod, but real.
---
We moved again.
The building stretched downward, a tomb of broken lives. Every hallway told a story: bloody handprints across walls, messages scrawled hastily in pen—Help Us, Gone to Roof, Don't Open Door 4B.
Claire read each one with wide eyes, whispering the words under her breath. Her grip on her stake tightened every time, as if she expected someone to leap from the shadows.
We stopped at one stairwell where the railing was bent, twisted inward as if something massive had slammed against it.
My stomach turned. Whatever had done that… it wasn't the same zombies we'd fought.
Claire noticed my gaze. "What… what could bend steel like that?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
---
We reached another landing.
This one wasn't silent.
From behind a closed door, faint noises drifted out. A low grunt. A heavy thud. Then a muffled voice.
Alive.
Claire's eyes widened. "Someone's in there."
I raised a hand. "Quiet."
We listened. Another thud. The sound of furniture scraping. And then a voice, low and strained: "Come on, you bastards—"
Not a cry of fear. A growl of defiance.
I felt something stir in my chest.
Claire whispered, "It's not a zombie."
"No," I murmured, gripping the hammer tighter. "It's a survivor."
Her hazel eyes met mine. For the first time since the world had collapsed, there was no hesitation in her voice when she whispered back:
"Then we help him."
---