The sky over the city was a dull gray, the kind that made the day feel like it was stuck between dusk and dawn. Owen adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, shifting the weight of his laptop as he stepped off the city bus. He had spent the last few hours at the local café, finishing up some last-minute work for his job. Nothing exciting, nothing worth remembering, just another ordinary day in a life full of them.

The streets were alive with the usual rush of people moving from place to place. Office workers in stiff suits, teenagers loitering near convenience stores, street vendors shouting out deals for the day. It was a city like any other, full of people who thought the world would always be the same. Owen was one of them.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing at the time—6:48 PM. He needed to get home before his sister, Emily, started calling him a dozen times in a row. She was always worried about him walking the streets too late, especially since the city wasn’t as safe as it used to be.

As he made his way through the crowd, something felt... off. The buzz of the streets seemed quieter, as if a strange hush had settled over the people. Owen furrowed his brows, glancing around. At first, he thought he was imagining it, but then he heard it.

Screams.

Not the kind that came from an argument or a petty crime gone wrong. These were blood-curdling, raw, filled with the kind of terror that sent a chill straight down his spine. His head snapped to the left, and he saw a woman running, her arms flailing as she shoved past people. Behind her—someone, something, was chasing her.

Owen’s blood ran cold. The thing moved with an unnatural speed, arms jerking, mouth stretched open unnaturally wide. The woman tripped, falling to the pavement with a cry, and the thing was on her in seconds. Its teeth sunk into her neck, ripping flesh away as blood spurted out in a gruesome arc.

The crowd erupted into chaos. People screamed, shoving past each other in blind panic. Others stood frozen, unable to process what they were seeing. The thing didn’t stop—it tore into the woman’s body with relentless hunger, its fingers digging into her flesh, pulling apart muscle and organs as if it was starving.

Owen couldn’t breathe. His mind refused to process the horror unfolding in front of him. His body, however, acted on instinct. He turned and ran.

More screams. More chaos. He barely made it a block before a car sped through an intersection, crashing into a fire hydrant. Water exploded into the air. People pushed and shoved, trampling over each other in their desperate attempt to flee.

Owen’s heart pounded as he ducked into an alleyway, trying to find a way around the madness. He had barely caught his breath when he froze.

A man was on the ground, his legs twitching, his body jerking in spasms. Above him, another one of those things—undead, the word scraped across Owen’s mind—was hunched over, its teeth sinking into the man’s stomach. The sickening squelch of flesh being torn apart made Owen’s stomach churn.

The creature’s head snapped up. Blood dripped from its mouth, its milky-white eyes locking onto Owen.

Panic took hold of him as he stumbled back. His foot caught on something, and before he could react, he was falling. His back hit the pavement hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. Pain shot up his spine, but he didn’t have time to recover.

The thing lunged.

Owen barely got his arms up before it was on him. He struggled, pushing against its face, trying to keep its snapping jaws away. Its breath was rancid, filled with the stench of rotting flesh and fresh blood. He twisted, shoving his knee up into its stomach, trying to get it off him.

But then he felt it.

A sharp, burning pain exploded in his shoulder. His scream echoed down the alley as teeth tore into his flesh. His vision blurred as agony shot through every nerve in his body. Adrenaline surged, and with one last desperate push, he managed to shove the creature off of him. It hit the ground hard, giving him just enough time to scramble to his feet and run.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The world around him blurred as he moved, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The pain in his shoulder was unbearable, every step sending fresh waves of agony through him. He didn’t know where he was running—only that he had to find somewhere, anywhere to hide.

By the time he reached an abandoned grocery store, his legs were barely holding him up. He shoved through the doors, the once bright and clean aisles now filled with scattered goods, broken glass, and overturned shelves. The place had already been raided.

He stumbled to the far corner, his breath ragged. His entire body burned. His skin was clammy, his vision swimming. The fever hit fast, like a fire spreading through his veins. His stomach churned, his limbs felt heavy.

He barely managed to sit down before darkness swallowed him whole.

---

Owen didn’t know how long he was out.

When he woke, the world was different.

The hunger was the first thing he noticed. It wasn’t the normal kind of hunger—it was deep, primal, gnawing at his insides as if something inside him was tearing him apart from the inside out. His throat felt dry, his stomach twisted painfully.

Then the smell hit him.

It was intoxicating. Warm, rich, thick with the scent of blood and decay. His body moved before his mind could catch up, his feet dragging him forward.

The streets were empty, the distant sound of sirens long since faded. He turned a corner, and his eyes locked onto a corpse.

The body was barely recognizable, torn apart, the flesh peeling away from the bone. The sight of it made him sick. He wanted to turn away, to run. But his body wouldn’t let him.

His knees hit the pavement. His hands reached out.

And then he ate.

The taste of blood filled his mouth, the texture of raw flesh sending shudders down his spine. He wanted to stop, to scream, but his body refused. It wasn’t hunger—it was survival.

When it was over, he stumbled back, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.

His mind reeled. The horror of what he had done threatened to consume him. He turned, running back into the grocery store, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

That’s when he saw it.

A figure shambled between the shelves, its vacant eyes scanning the empty aisles. It was one of them.

An undead.

Owen froze, expecting it to attack, to lunge at him like the others had. But it didn’t.

It ignored him.

His breath hitched as realization dawned.

He wasn’t human anymore.

He was one of them.

Owen’s breathing was ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. His mind screamed for him to wake up, to tell him this was just some fevered nightmare, but he knew better. The hunger still gnawed at him, the sickening taste of flesh still clung to his tongue. He needed to see—he needed proof that he hadn’t just imagined all of this.

His feet moved on their own, dragging him through the aisles of the abandoned grocery store toward the dimly lit restroom in the back. His legs trembled as he pushed the door open, his hands gripping the sink as he stared at the cracked mirror above it.

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t his own.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as his eyes darted across his features, searching for something—anything—that still looked like him. His once dark brown hair was now fading into a dull white at the tips, as if the life had been drained from it. His skin, though not yet rotting like the monsters he had seen, had grown pale, almost deathly.

Then he saw his eyes.

What were once warm brown irises had transformed into a piercing shade of gold. Not a natural, hazel gold, but something unnatural, something inhuman. They glowed faintly under the dim light, sharp and predatory, like those of a beast.

Owen staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. His hands clutched his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he could claw away whatever had happened to him. He felt sick. His body was trembling, rejecting reality itself.

“No… no, no, no!” he screamed, his voice raw with panic.

He backed into the wall, slumping to the floor as he tried to regulate his breathing. His hands trembled as he stared down at them—his fingernails had darkened, sharpened ever so slightly. His body still felt human, but deep inside, something else was stirring.

He wasn’t human anymore.

He was a monster.

Tears burned at his eyes, but he forced them back. He couldn’t lose himself. He had to stay sane. He had seen what those things were capable of—mindless creatures, driven only by their hunger. Was that his fate? Would he lose control, lose himself, become nothing more than a monster that existed to feast on the flesh of the living?

Owen swallowed hard, gripping the fabric of his jacket.

“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I won’t become like them.”

He had to find a way to live. To survive. But not like them.

He wouldn't let himself become a mindless beast.

---

One month later.

Owen sat on the cold tile floor of the grocery store, his back against the shelves as he stared at the half-eaten loaf of bread in front of him.

It had been his fifth attempt at eating something normal. His stomach clenched in protest, the mere scent of the food now foreign and unappealing. He forced himself to swallow a small bite, chewing it as if it were sawdust.

And then it came back up.

Violently.

He coughed and gagged, his body rejecting it almost immediately. His stomach twisted in pain, and he barely managed to stumble to his feet before emptying the contents of his gut into a nearby trash can.

Every single attempt had been the same. Vegetables, fruits, even cooked meat—it all tasted like ash in his mouth, and his body refused to accept it.

Only two things didn't make him sick.

Water. And—he hated even thinking about it—blood.

At first, he refused to believe it. He starved himself, trying to fight the urges, but the hunger only grew worse. It clawed at him, burned him from the inside out. He grew weaker by the day, his mind clouding with an unbearable, agonizing hunger.

It wasn’t until desperation took over that he found out the truth.

The first time he had tasted blood, it had been purely by accident. A dead body—another creature, long since fallen—had been left in a nearby alleyway. He hadn’t meant to touch it, hadn’t meant to smell it.

But the scent was intoxicating.

His body moved on its own, and before he could stop himself, his fingers had brushed against the coagulated red liquid. He lifted it to his lips—just a taste, just to see.

The moment it touched his tongue, it was like fire in his veins. Energy flooded through him, the unbearable pain in his stomach fading instantly.

He had devoured the corpse.

He didn’t even remember doing it.

When he came back to his senses, his hands were slick with black blood from the creatures, his mouth stained black. His stomach no longer ached. His body no longer felt weak.

The hunger had disappeared.

Owen had spent the next few weeks testing himself, trying to find a way around it. But no matter how many times he tried normal food, the results were the same. The only things that sustained him were the flesh of another monster… or the flesh of a human.

It sickened him.

Every time he ate, he hated himself. But the alternative was starvation. He had no choice.

He had taken to hunting only the dead creatures he could find, avoiding humans as much as possible. He refused to cross that line. He refused to become the kind of monster that lurked in the shadows of the city.

But the thought gnawed at him.

What would happen if there were no dead monsters left?

Would he be forced to hunt something alive?

Owen clenched his fists, his golden eyes narrowing.

He didn’t know how long he had left before that choice became unavoidable. But he wasn’t ready to lose himself.

Not yet.

The city was silent.

Owen walked through the abandoned streets, his boots crunching against scattered debris and dried blood. The smell of decay was thick in the air, but he barely noticed it anymore. A month ago, the scent of rotting corpses and old, dried blood would have turned his stomach. Now, it was just part of the world he lived in.

His fingers brushed against his lips, wiping away the remnants of his last meal. The hunger was never truly gone, but he had learned how to control it. The flesh of another monster had dulled the gnawing emptiness inside him, at least for a while. It had become routine—hunt, feed, survive.

Owen caught his reflection in a shattered car window. His once brown hair had turned completely white, the strands messy and unkempt from weeks of living like a predator in a world of monsters. His golden eyes stared back at him—unnatural, eerie, glowing faintly in the dim light.

He wasn’t human anymore.

He had come to accept it.

The abandoned grocery store was just ahead. It had become his temporary shelter, a place to return to after each hunt. He didn’t know why he still bothered—maybe it was the illusion of normalcy, the desperate attempt to cling to something familiar.

But as he stepped inside, something felt different.

His nostrils flared.

A fresh scent. Meat.

His stomach wasn’t even empty, yet his mouth watered at the smell. This wasn’t the lingering scent of rotting corpses or old blood. This was alive.

His senses sharpened, his ears twitching at the faintest noise. And then, he heard them.

Voices.

Three of them.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound. It was distant, but clear—his hearing had become far better than any human’s.

“Holy shit, we actually found food.”

“Don’t jinx it, man. Just take what we can carry.”

“This is the first real jackpot we’ve hit in days.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. Survivors.

He moved without thinking, his body slipping through the aisles like a shadow. His feet made no sound, his breathing steady. He had spent so long believing he was the only one left, that there was no one else alive. Yet here they were—humans, oblivious to the creatures roaming nearby, completely unaware of the danger they had just walked into.

Owen crouched near the end of the aisle, peering between the shelves. He could see them now. Three people, all stuffing their backpacks with whatever food and drinks remained.

One was a guy with a makeshift spear—nothing more than a knife duct-taped to a broom handle. Another, a woman, had a baseball bat slung over her shoulder. The last was a younger boy with a crowbar, his nervous eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at them.

They had no idea what was coming.

Then it happened.

A can slipped from one of their hands, hitting the floor with a metallic clank before rolling across the tile.

The store fell into complete silence.

Then came the screeches.

Four of them.

“Shit, Ghouls!” One of the three shouted.

Owen’s body tensed. He knew those sounds well—the guttural, inhuman cries of monsters who had caught the scent of fresh blood.

The three survivors froze, fear flashing across their faces. The guy with the broom-handle spear gripped his weapon tighter. The girl with the bat sucked in a sharp breath. The younger boy’s hands trembled on his crowbar.

They were preparing to fight.

They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Owen moved before they could even see what was coming.

His body blurred into motion, faster than any human could react. He slipped between the aisles, his footsteps utterly silent. He didn’t hesitate.

The first creature barely had time to react before his hand plunged into its chest. His nails, now razor-sharp claws, sliced through its rotting flesh like paper. He gripped its heart and ripped it free with a sickening squelch. The creature gurgled once before collapsing.

The second monster lunged at him, its jagged teeth snapping. Owen ducked low, his movements almost inhumanly fluid. He surged forward, shoving his arm straight through its ribs, feeling the warmth of dead black blood coat his skin as he crushed its heart.

The third and fourth barely had time to screech before he was on them, his claws carving through their decayed bodies. Blood splattered across the floor, the scent rich and intoxicating, but Owen ignored it.

It was over in seconds.

He exhaled sharply, flicking the blood from his fingers. His golden eyes darted toward the three survivors, who had remained frozen in place.

They were staring at him.

Owen quickly wiped the remaining blood from his face, stepping out from the shadows as he forced himself to slow his breathing. He had to appear normal. He couldn’t let them know what he was.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The three were still gripping their weapons, their eyes flicking between the shredded bodies of the creatures and the man who had just torn them apart with his bare hands.

“…Holy shit,” the woman muttered.

The guy with the spear swallowed hard. “You—what the hell was that? How did you do that?”

Owen hesitated. He needed an excuse—something believable.

Instead, he asked, “Why’d you call them that?”

The three exchanged glances.

“What?” the younger boy asked.

“You called them Ghouls,” Owen said. “Why?”

The guy with the makeshift spear frowned. “That’s what they are. Or, at least, that’s what everyone started calling them. It came from the national defense alert—before everything went to shit, they were trying to name these things. Undead was too broad, so they settled on ‘Ghouls’ before the emergency broadcasts stopped.”

Owen nodded slowly, processing that information. He had spent the last month alone, completely cut off from any kind of news. It made sense that the world had already started labeling the creatures.

The woman stepped forward slightly, still eyeing him with suspicion. “That still doesn’t explain how you took them down like that. You just—” she gestured at the bodies, “—ripped through them like they were nothing.”

Owen let out a small breath and forced a casual shrug. “Their skin is rotting. It wasn’t that hard.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t press the issue.

The younger boy, who looked no older than eighteen, suddenly perked up. “Wait… does that mean you’re a survivor, too?”

Owen hesitated. He was not the same as them. But he couldn’t exactly tell them the truth.

“…Yeah,” he finally said. “Guess I am.”

The guy with the spear exchanged looks with the others before glancing back at Owen. “Listen… we’re looking for a new base. We had a place, but it got overrun a few days ago. We need somewhere safe. Are you alone?”

Owen’s muscles tensed.

They were offering him a place among them.

A part of him wanted to refuse. It would be easier, safer, to stay on his own. But at the same time… he had been alone for so long. And the idea of staying with people, even if they weren’t like him, felt…

Tempting.

He swallowed down the unease rising in his throat. “Where are you guys headed?”

The woman shrugged. “No clue yet. We’re just looking for somewhere to survive.”

Owen glanced at the three of them. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he nodded.

“…Alright,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

For better or worse, he had just made a choice.

He just hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

---

Owen knelt near the front entrance, gripping a hammer in one hand and a wooden plank in the other. He lined it up against the doorframe, holding it steady as Mark drove in the nails. The rhythmic pounding of metal against wood echoed through the empty grocery store, a stark contrast to the eerie silence outside.

Mark, the older man who had introduced himself as their leader, worked efficiently. He had the look of someone who had lived through more than his fair share of hardship—salt-and-pepper hair, deep lines on his face, and sharp, calculating eyes that missed nothing. Owen could tell right away that Mark was the kind of man people naturally followed, the kind who took charge when no one else could.

“You’re pretty handy,” Mark said, driving in another nail. “You do this kind of work before the world went to hell?”

Owen let out a dry chuckle. “Not exactly.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, careful to keep his nails from cutting through the fabric. “Did some construction work when I was younger, but nothing serious. Mostly just odd jobs.”

“Odd jobs, huh?” Mark smirked. “Guess that makes you better off than half the people we got back at camp. Most of ‘em were either office workers or college kids. Not a lot of useful skills when you’re running for your life.”

Owen hummed in response, focusing on securing another board over the shattered window. He had been so used to being alone, it felt strange having someone to talk to again. It almost felt… normal.

Almost.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before Mark spoke again. “Gotta say, you handled those Ghouls back there like a damn pro. That’s not something I see every day.”

Owen tensed slightly but forced himself to relax. “Like I said, their skin was rotting. Just got lucky, I guess.”

Mark nodded, standing back to inspect their work. “Yeah, maybe. Usually, those things have skin like goddamn leather. Ain’t easy putting ‘em down unless you take out the head. But hey, we’ll take whatever luck we can get.”

Owen let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew the truth. Ghouls were tough—he had seen bullets barely do anything to them before. But his body? It was something else entirely.

A few days ago, he had found an old kitchen knife and decided to test something. He pressed the blade against his forearm and applied pressure—just enough to see if it would cut. Instead, the metal snapped like it was made of brittle plastic.

His skin was stronger than a normal Ghoul’s.

He had no idea why.

And he wasn’t about to start explaining that to Mark.

Instead, he shifted the topic. “What about you? What were you doing before all this?”

Mark sighed, leaning against the boarded-up window. “Does it even matter anymore?” He rubbed a hand over his face, as if shaking off old memories. “Worked as a mechanic. Owned a small garage on the west side of town. Spent most of my days fixing up cars and overcharging rich assholes who didn’t know a damn thing about engines.”

Owen chuckled. “Sounds like a decent life.”

Mark gave a humorless smile. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean shit now, does it?” He exhaled sharply. “Everything changed so fast. One second, we were hearing rumors about some new virus overseas, the next thing we knew, people were tearing each other apart in the streets.”

Owen remained quiet, letting Mark continue.

“At first, I stayed in my shop. Thought maybe the military would get things under control.” He shook his head. “That was a joke. Took me less than a week to realize no one was coming to save us.”

Owen frowned. He had been unconscious during those first few days of the outbreak, missing the chaos as civilization collapsed around him. He had no idea how bad it had truly been.

Mark continued, “I started looking for survivors. Found most of ‘em in an old apartment building next to this grocery store. Some were hiding alone, scared outta their minds. Others were in groups, trying to fight back.”

He clenched his jaw. “We thought we could fortify the place, block off the stairwells and keep those things from getting in. Didn’t work. Ghouls broke through our defenses like they were made of paper.”

Owen could hear the bitterness in his voice.

“That’s how we lost most of our people,” Mark admitted quietly. “Parents trying to protect their kids. Friends who refused to leave each other behind. We started with sixty-seven people. Now, we’re down to twenty-four.”

Owen swallowed hard. “The kids…?”

Mark sighed heavily. “Most of their parents are dead. The only reason any of them made it was because we locked ourselves in a few apartments and broke through the walls to connect them. Ghouls got the rest.”

Owen couldn’t imagine what that must have been like—being trapped in an apartment, listening to the sounds of people being torn apart on the other side of the door.

Mark straightened, rolling his shoulders. “When we ran out of food, we knew we had to move. Tied together some makeshift ropes and climbed out a window. Made our way here through the employee entrance, hoping to grab what we could.”

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “And then you showed up.”

Owen absorbed the story in silence, unsure of what to say. He had been convinced there were no survivors left, that he was the only one still walking around. But now, he knew there were at least twenty-four people still fighting to live.

Twenty-four people relying on Mark to lead them.

And now, Mark was offering him a place among them.

“You could’ve just left me behind,” Owen pointed out.

Mark scoffed. “Yeah, well, that’d be a pretty shitty way to repay you after you saved our asses.” He glanced at Owen. “Besides, you seem like the kind of guy who can handle himself. We need people like that.”

Owen hesitated. He wanted to say yes. A part of him ached to be around people again, to feel like he wasn’t just some monster lurking in the ruins of a dead world.

But he wasn’t like them. He wasn’t human.

What if they found out? What if they turned on him?

Mark must’ve noticed his hesitation because he sighed. “Listen, kid. I’m not gonna force you. You can walk away if you want. But if you do, you’ll be out there alone again. And I don’t think that’s what you want.”

Owen clenched his fists. Mark was right—he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Even if it meant lying.

Even if it meant pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll go with you.”

Mark gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Good. Welcome to the group.”

Owen forced a small smile.

For now, he was just another survivor.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He wasn’t one of them.

And he never would be.

Owen drove the last nail into place, the sound sharp and final. He stepped back, running a hand over the boarded-up window, testing its strength. It would hold—for now.

The grocery store was as fortified as they could make it. Every door was barricaded, every window covered. There were no open spaces for Ghouls to crawl through, no easy entry points. It was as secure as they could get with the limited supplies they had.

Mark let out a tired sigh beside him, rolling his shoulders. “Well… that’s about as good as it’s gonna get.”

Owen glanced at him. He could sense the doubt hidden beneath his words. Mark was trying to stay optimistic, but he knew just as well as Owen did—nothing lasted forever. A place like this could only hold for so long.

Still, Owen nodded. “It’s solid. Should keep them out.”

Mark snorted. “Yeah, until some dumbass trips over a can again.” He shook his head, rubbing his beard. “This place is good for now, but we’ll have to be careful. Can’t stay in one spot too long.”

Owen knew that. Ghouls were relentless, drawn to sound and movement. Even if they didn’t come now, they would eventually.

But there was another truth Owen understood—one he had learned from experience.

Ghouls were nocturnal.

They weren’t like humans, wandering freely during the day. They preferred the shadows, the darkness. They hunted when the sun set, emerging from abandoned buildings, from sewer tunnels, from places drenched in pitch-black night.

That wasn’t to say they never moved in the daytime. Some did—mostly the ones whose hunger had driven them mad. They would stumble through the streets, searching for anything to devour, even their own kind.

Owen had seen it before. He had felt it.

The way hunger clawed at the mind, the way it twisted reason into a single, maddening urge: Feed.

He had fought against it every day. He had managed to control himself. But other Ghouls… they weren’t as lucky.

Mark chuckled beside him, snapping Owen out of his thoughts. “Hell of a job, kid. Didn’t think we’d get it all done this quick.”

Owen nodded. “I’ve had some practice.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t push for details. Instead, he wiped sweat from his forehead and leaned against the barricaded window. “We should be good for the night. Long as nobody makes too much noise.”

Owen crossed his arms, watching the fading light outside. “When are we getting everyone else?”

Mark smirked. “Alyssa’s already working on that.”

Owen tilted his head slightly. “The woman with the bat?”

“The one and only,” Mark confirmed. “She’s leading a group to bring everyone over. Shouldn’t take too long. The hardest part will be getting them across without drawing attention.”

Owen remained quiet, thinking. Moving that many people—especially children—was going to be risky. But it wasn’t impossible.

For now, all he could do was wait.

And hope the night stayed quiet.

Owen leaned against the boarded-up counter, his fingers drumming idly against the wood. His golden eyes flickered to Mark, who was double-checking the barricades, testing each plank of wood to make sure they were secure.

Something twisted in Owen’s gut—anxiety, anticipation, hunger.

It had been almost half an hour since Alyssa had left to retrieve the others. The sun was slipping lower behind the city skyline, stretching long shadows across the streets. The later it got, the more dangerous their situation became.

The night belonged to the Ghouls.

Owen knew that better than anyone.

Mark hadn’t said much, but Owen could tell he was worried too. The older man was calm on the surface, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a flicker of unease in his eyes whenever he glanced toward the darkening streets outside.

Owen exhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. Stay calm. Act normal. Don’t let them suspect anything.

But he couldn’t just sit here and wait.

“I should go help them.”

Mark turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “They’ll be fine. Alyssa knows what she’s doing.”

Owen nodded but didn’t move from where he stood. Every instinct in his body told him otherwise.

“It’s getting dark,” he said simply. “They don’t have much time.”

Mark frowned, clearly weighing his options. Eventually, he sighed. “Alright, fine. Just don’t do anything stupid. Keep quiet, stay low, and don’t draw any attention.”

Owen gave a small nod and turned toward the door. He could already feel his pulse quickening—not with fear, but with something else. Anticipation.

The hunt.

---

The moment he stepped outside, the city’s scent hit him like a wave.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, of old blood baked into the pavement, of rotting corpses hidden in the alleyways. But beneath it, there was something else.

Something fresh.

Human flesh.

Owen inhaled deeply, his golden eyes narrowing as he picked up the faintest traces of Alyssa and the others. The scent was intoxicating. Sweet. Warm. Alive.

His stomach clenched, and his nails dug into his palms.

He needed to move—fast.

Owen darted through the streets, his movements unnaturally smooth, his body a blur as he traced the scent. His feet barely made a sound as he maneuvered through the wreckage of the city, dodging overturned cars and debris with practiced ease.

Then, another scent hit him.

Ghoul.

It was close.

And it was heading straight for them.

Owen’s muscles tensed. He moved faster, rounding a corner just in time to see Alyssa leading the survivors through a narrow street between two collapsed buildings. They were moving quickly but cautiously, their weapons gripped tightly as they made their way toward the grocery store.

Alyssa was at the front, scanning the area with sharp eyes, her baseball bat held in a firm grip. She had no idea what was coming.

Owen’s gaze snapped to the right, locking onto a shadow moving between the cars.

The Ghoul was fast.

It lunged from the darkness, its milky-white eyes locked onto the nearest survivor.

Owen reacted before it could reach them.

He moved in a blur, crossing the distance in seconds. His hands shot out, fingers curling like claws as he grabbed the Ghoul by the throat and slammed it against a rusted car. The creature let out a strangled screech, its limbs flailing violently.

Owen didn’t give it a chance to fight back.

With a single, fluid motion, he drove his claws into its chest, gripping its heart and ripping it free in one swift movement. The Ghoul gurgled, then went limp, collapsing into a heap at his feet.

Silence.

Owen inhaled sharply, the scent of fresh blood overwhelming his senses. His body burned with hunger, the gnawing emptiness returning with full force.

He looked down at the corpse.

He shouldn’t.

But he needed to.

His body moved on its own as he crouched down, his fingers tearing into the cooling flesh. His jaw ached as he bit into the Ghoul’s remains, the taste of raw meat sending a shudder through him.

It was sickening.

It was necessary.

Owen ate quickly, efficiently, tearing through the Ghoul’s body with practiced ease. He could feel his strength returning, the hunger fading—but the guilt remained.

When it was done, he stood up, wiping the blood from his mouth. His body was clean—no stains, no signs of what he had just done. He wiped the blood away with the clothes of the ghoul, leaving no evidence behind.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

Then, he moved toward Alyssa and the others.

---

By the time Owen reached them, the survivors were already on edge.

Alyssa turned sharply, raising her bat as she heard his footsteps. When she recognized him, she lowered it, frowning.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” she demanded.

Owen shrugged. “Mark sent me to help.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue. “We’re almost there. Just keep quiet and watch our backs.”

Owen nodded and fell into step beside them.

The group was smaller than he had expected. Children clung to the arms of the few remaining adults, their faces pale and hollow. The older survivors carried makeshift weapons, their eyes darting around nervously.

They were weak. Scared. Vulnerable.

Owen clenched his fists.

They wouldn’t last long in a world like this.

But that wasn’t his problem.

His focus was getting them to safety.

The walk back to the grocery store was slow, careful. Every noise made the group flinch, every shadow a potential threat. But Owen could hear everything. His heightened senses picked up the distant shuffling of Ghouls, but none were close enough to be a danger.

They made it to the store without incident.

Mark was already waiting by the barricaded entrance, his arms crossed as he watched them approach. When he saw the group, he let out a breath of relief.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t think we’d actually pull it off.”

Alyssa smirked. “You should have more faith.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just get inside before something finds us.”

One by one, the survivors slipped into the grocery store, their expressions weary but relieved.

Owen was the last to enter.

As he stepped inside, Mark clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good job, kid.”

Owen forced a smile. “Just doing my part.”

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He wasn’t one of them.

And he never would be.

Owen scanned the room, taking in the sight of the survivors as they settled into their new refuge. The place felt cramped with so many people inside, but no one complained. They were exhausted—dirty, hungry, and barely holding onto hope.

The children clung to whatever family they had left, some crying softly into their guardians' shoulders. Others sat in silence, too scared or too numb to react to their surroundings. The adults weren’t much better. Their faces were hollow, their bodies tense with exhaustion and uncertainty. Some whispered to one another, glancing at the barricaded doors as if expecting them to be torn down at any moment.

Owen exhaled, stepping away from the crowd. The stench of sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies was thick, but it wasn’t what caught his attention.

A little girl sat alone in the corner.

Her dark brown hair was tangled, her skin smeared with dried blood. She clutched a crumpled piece of paper in her small hands, her hazel eyes dull and lifeless. She looked no older than twelve.

Owen approached slowly, kneeling beside her. She turned her head toward him, tilting it slightly, her expression unreadable.

He gave her a weak smile and sat down next to her.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She didn’t respond.

Owen didn’t expect her to.

Owen studied the girl for a moment, noting the way she kept her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to disappear. The crumpled paper in her hands looked worn, the edges torn and smudged with dirt. Her small fingers clenched it tightly, as if letting go would mean losing something important.

“You got a name?” Owen asked gently.

She didn’t answer. Her hazel eyes remained empty, distant, like she wasn’t really there. It wasn’t the same as fear—he had seen fear in the eyes of the other kids. This was something else.

Emptiness.

Like she had nothing left to lose.

Owen leaned back against the wall, resting his arms on his knees. “I’ve got a little sister,” he said after a moment. “She’s probably about your age. Always worrying about me. Always checking to make sure I’m safe.” He let out a soft chuckle, though it felt strange coming from him. “Honestly, it got a little annoying sometimes.”

The girl’s fingers twitched slightly around the paper, but she still said nothing.

Owen hesitated before continuing. “I don’t know where she is now. I’d like to think she made it out, that she’s with some other survivors, maybe even giving them hell about keeping their shoes tied or drinking enough water.” He smiled faintly. “That’s the kind of person she is.”

The girl’s gaze flickered toward him for the first time, just for a second, before she looked away again.

Owen let out a quiet breath. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

She said nothing, but the way her fingers clenched the paper a little tighter told him she understood.

She was alone.

Just like him.