She stood at the top of the stairs.
Torn sari. Blood on her hands. Hair hanging loose, the way she never wore it outside. Eyes milky white.
"Priya," Reyan whispered.
The word barely made it past his throat.
She turned toward the sound. Slow. Mechanical. Her mouth opened.
That terrible groan.
"Reyan, don't—" Samir started.
But Reyan was already moving. His feet carried him forward even as his brain screamed at him to stop.
"It's me, Priya." he said, voice breaking. "It's Reyan. Please."
She groaned louder, reaching for him. Her fingers were stiff, curled like claws.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please, not you. Anyone but you."
She was three steps away.
Two.
One.
The knife was in his hand. He didn't remember raising it.
It found her brain.
He'd promised to protect her. Promised on their wedding day, seven years ago under the mandap with flowers in her hair and henna on her hands. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.
Death had them parted now.
She gasped — a small sound, almost human — and fell forward into his arms.
Reyan caught her. Sank to his knees, still holding her. His cries echoed down the stairwell, raw and broken, the sound of something fundamental being ripped away.
Samir and Taj stood back, giving him space. Taj turned away, wiping his eyes. Samir just stared at the wall, jaw clenched tight.
"I'm sorry," Reyan whispered into her hair. It still smelled like her shampoo. Coconut and jasmine. "I'm so sorry. I promised I'd come home. I promised."
But promises didn't matter anymore.
Not in this new world.
After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Reyan gently laid her down. He closed her eyes with shaking fingers. Smoothed her hair back from her face.
Then he stood on legs that barely held him, his face wet with tears and blood.
"The fifth floor," he said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "We keep going."
"Reyan—" Taj started.
"We keep going."
They climbed past her body. Reyan didn't look back. Couldn't. If he looked back, he'd collapse. If he collapsed, he'd never get up again.
And his daughter was still up there.
Wing B was at the end of the hallway.
Three more infected blocked their path. An old woman. A young man in gym clothes. A teenage girl with braces.
Reyan killed all three.
No hesitation. No mercy. No feeling.
Something had broken inside him when that knife entered Priya's chest. The part of him that hesitated, that saw people instead of threats, that still believed in mercy — it was gone. Burned away.
Samir and Taj followed with weapons ready, but they barely needed to help. Reyan moved like something mechanical. Efficient. Cold.
When the last body hit the floor, he kept walking.
His apartment door came into view.
5B-7.
The number plate was still there, slightly crooked because he'd never gotten around to fixing it. The doormat his daughter had picked out — bright yellow with a cartoon sun that always made her laugh — sat outside, spotted with blood now.
The door was closed.
Locked.
Reyan's heart leaped into his throat.
Locked meant safe. Locked meant someone inside had locked it. Someone alive. Someone who could still think and plan and lock doors.
"Please," he whispered, barely audible. "Please let her be okay."
He knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.
His hand shook so badly he almost couldn't do it.
"Hello?" His voice cracked. "It's me. It's Reyan. Please, open up."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Heavy. Adult.
Then a voice. Deep. Male.
"Who's there?"
Reyan froze.
That wasn't his daughter.
"Who are you?" His voice rose, panic sharpening every word. "What are you doing in my home? Where's my daughter!?"
"Identify yourself first!" the voice commanded.
"I SAID THIS IS MY HOME!" Reyan shouted, slamming his fist against the door. "WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER!?"
Behind him, Samir and Taj raised their weapons. Whatever was about to happen, they were ready.
A security chain rattled.
The door opened a crack.
A brown eye peered through the gap, scanning them. Reyan, covered in blood. Samir and Taj, weapons ready. The bodies littering the hallway behind them.
"Reyan Sharma?" the voice asked