Scandal: Who's the Father

chapter 1

Gray skies stretched endlessly over the ruins of a once-thriving world, casting a somber gloom over the shattered remnants of civilization. Buildings stood like skeletal sentinels, their windows shattered, their walls fractured and crumbling. The streets were a graveyard of debris, littered with dust, rubble, and the rusted remains of long-abandoned vehicles.

A gas station sat in the midst of the desolation, its structure barely holding together. Glass shards glinted faintly on the dust-coated floor.

A shift in the silence.

A pair of shoes stirred amid the debris—old, scuffed, but sturdy enough to have endured miles of hardship. The world seemed to zoom in, tracing the figure slumped against the cold wall.

His clothes, though frayed at the seams and dulled by grime, were made of thick, reinforced fabric—armor against the merciless world. Beneath the layers, subtle glints of metal hinted at hidden weapons, tucked away in folds and straps, ready at a moment's notice. A knife hilt barely peeked from his sleeve, and something heavier pressed against his hip beneath the fabric.

His body stirred sluggishly, shoulders shifting as he pulled himself from uneasy rest. A tangled mass of frizzy, unkempt hair crowned his head, stiff with neglect. Then, his face came into view—gaunt, skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, deep and unyielding, like shadows carved into stone.

His eyelids lifted, revealing sunken, bloodshot eyes—the color of sleepless nights and forgotten dreams. No one looking into them would believe he had just slept. There was no haze of rest, no lingering drowsiness—only sharp, tired awareness, as if his body had paused but his mind had never stopped. His fingers twitched near the concealed blade at his side, instinct overriding exhaustion. Then, with a slow, measured breath, he settled again, gaze lowering yet never truly letting down its guard.

With a slow, weary motion, he pushed himself up. His posture remained hunched, shoulders stiff, as though weighed down by something far heavier than fatigue. Every movement was cautious, practiced, as if even the simple act of rising required vigilance.

His eyes flicked around the room, scanning the dim, dust-laden interior of the gas station. The shattered glass, the overturned shelves, the rusting remains of a world long abandoned—none of it was unfamiliar to him. It was just another stop in an endless journey.

Satisfied that nothing stirred in the shadows, he reached for his bag. The fabric was worn, the seams barely holding together, yet the way he handled it was careful—this was everything he had. His fingers rummaged through its contents before pulling out something small, unidentifiable in the dim light.

Slowly, he brought it to his mouth.

He chewed without reaction, without taste. Whatever it was—dried, hardened, flavorless—it was food only in function, meant to keep him moving, nothing more. Each bite was slow, mechanical, as if he had long since stopped thinking about what he was eating. Hunger was an old companion, one that neither hurried him nor left him entirely.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins, but inside, he simply chewed in silence, swallowed, and moved on.

He stepped out of the gas station, his boots crunching against the dirt and shattered glass. The wind swept through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of rust, decay, and something far older—something that clung to the bones of the dead world around him.

He moved on.

His steps were steady but never hurried, his head kept low, yet his sharp, restless eyes never stopped scanning. Every broken building, every overturned car, every alleyway filled with debris—he took it all in, never lingering, never stopping longer than necessary. There was no destination, no clear path ahead, but still, he walked.

Hours passed in silence. The world was empty of life.

But not of movement.

The undead were still out there—shadows of what had once been human, stumbling in slow, jerking motions, their hollow eyes vacant yet searching. He saw them from a distance, their figures swaying in the ruins, waiting, listening. He never got too close. He didn't need to. He had long since learned that caution was worth more than any weapon.

At times, the roads became too open, too exposed. Without hesitation, he veered toward the underground. He pried open rusted sewer grates, slipping into the depths where the air was thick and foul, but safer. Darkness pressed in, the tunnels stretching in endless, suffocating silence. Yet, he moved through them as if he had done it a hundred times before, his breathing steady, his hands ready.

Above or below, it didn't matter.

He just kept moving.

His footsteps halted, the sound of his boots muffled by the damp, crumbling floor of the underground. The air was thick, humid, and stagnant, laced with the sour, metallic scent of rust, decay, and the foul stench of sewage.

The silence of the tunnels was suddenly broken by an unmistakable sound—the dragging, shuffling footsteps of the undead. Their movements were slow and mechanical. He did not flinch. He was used to it.

His sharp gaze swept across the dimly lit passage, searching for an opening. Two tunnels caught his attention—one close by, just a few steps away, and another farther ahead on the opposite side. Between them lay the remnants of what had once been flowing sewage, now reduced to a stagnant, wet trench. Both tunnels likely led to different compartments of the underground maze, from where he could climb out of a sewer grate, seal off this section, and move on.

The second tunnel, though farther, was the better choice. If he ran now, he could reach it in time, ensuring the undead wouldn't get there first. He made his decision.

But then, amidst the dissonant shuffle, a sound cut through the damp air.

A child's cry.

It was sharp, desperate—a raw wail that echoed through the concrete walls.

He froze. A jolt of something flared inside him, sharp and unwelcome, before he crushed it down. It was probably a child's voice. He neither knew nor wished to find out.

He hadn't come here to help.

For him—Xie Kai—survival was all that mattered.

Compassion, guilt, anything resembling sentiment, had faded away in the early days of the apocalypse. It was too dangerous. Too costly. People died. People were dying.

He pushed forward, but his steps faltered. His fingers curled around the straps of his bag as he hurried toward the passage. Without realizing it, his feet had changed direction—he was no longer aiming for the second tunnel. His composure had slipped, and now he was moving toward the first one, the closer one.

He crouched down to enter in a rush, moving on instinct. A mistake.

Just as his body dipped forward, a sickening sense of wrongness prickled at the back of his mind.

Pure reflex jerked him back—just in time.

A hand shot out from the darkness.

Rotten. Corroded. Blue-tinged flesh stretched over bone.

Its long, blackened nails scraped against the air where his throat had just been. The hand twitched, fingers curling like claws, reaching mindlessly. Even without a bite, even without breaking the skin—those nails alone carried poison. A slow, insidious venom that would fester inside a living body, dragging them into undeath at a crawling, inevitable pace.

His breath hitched for just a second.

Xie Kai's grip tightened around the handle of his knife as he yanked it free from his belt. The blade, dull with age but honed to ruthless sharpness, gleamed under the weak, flickering light filtering through the sewer grates above.

With precise, practiced efficiency, he slashed downward. The edge of his blade sliced clean through the undead's reaching hand, severing fingers with a sickening squelch. The rotted flesh barely resisted—the decay had already softened the tissue—but the creature didn't flinch. It never would.

The undead never felt pain. Never hesitated. Never tired.

It lunged forward, mindless and unrelenting.

Xie Kai sidestepped, his movements swift, calculated. In a single fluid motion, he drew another weapon from his belt—a short, sturdy crowbar, its metal edge worn and dented from years of use. As the creature staggered past him, he swung.

The impact was brutal.

The first strike shattered the thing's shoulder, sending shards of brittle bone snapping beneath the force. The second caved in the side of its skull, splintering bone and rotted flesh like pulp. The undead crumpled, but it still twitched, its mouth opening and closing with mindless hunger.

One more blow—directly to the forehead—stilled it for good.

Xie Kai exhaled sharply, already moving. He turned toward the passage—

But before he could take a step, a blur of movement shot out from behind, where the cry had come from. The sound of dragging footsteps followed, too close now.

His body reacted before his mind did, pivoting sharply just as a boy—the same boy who had cried out—rushed toward him, arms outstretched as if trying to latch onto him for help.

Xie Kai twisted, dodging on instinct, but the child's weak grip still caught onto his sleeve. There was no weight to him.

If Xie Kai hadn't seen him, he might not have even registered the boy's presence at all. Just over ten years old—too young to have known the world before it all fell apart. Too young to remember what was lost.

Xie Kai himself had been twelve when it started. If not for his parents...

It didn't matter now.

He had no time to think.

Five—six. The undead were rushing forward.

Without hesitation, Xie Kai shoved the boy into the tunnel where he had just fought. The kid stumbled, clearly exhausted—injured, maybe? He didn't move with the urgency he should have.

An undead lunged.

Xie Kai whipped his crowbar up, metal clashing against rotting flesh as he blocked the creature's clawed hand inches from his face. Too close.

"Hurry."

His voice came out rough, hoarse—as if it hadn't been used in years.

The boy flinched, then scrambled forward, finally moving.

Xie Kai gritted his teeth, using all his strength to shove two of the undead backward, forcing them to crash into the ones behind them. The slight moment of disorder was all he needed.

He didn't waste it.

Without looking back, he glided into the tunnel, his clothes scraping against the walls in his haste.

The boy had already reached the manhole cover. Xie Kai saw him struggle, his small hands pressing up against it, trying to push it open.

It wouldn't budge.

Blocked? Or worse—bodies piled on top of it?

Xie Kai didn't stop to help. Instead, his eyes darted to the side—

The sewer gate.

Narrow. But he'd used it before.

His hands flew to the rusted bars, forcing them open.

The boy saw it too and quickly followed.

Somehow, they made it out.

Xie Kai didn't waste a second—sealing the lead tightly, dragging a dead body over it. But he knew it wouldn't hold for long. They had to move.