The faculty apartment building loomed like a tombstone against the bruised sky. Concrete facade cracked, windows dark, some boarded with splintered desks. The stench of the rat clung to them—ammonia-soaked fur, black blood, wet decay. It had seeped into clothes, hair, skin. Si-hun could taste it on every inhale.
They pushed through the lobby doors—glass shattered long ago, crunching underfoot. Stairs ahead. No elevator hum in this dead world. Yoo-jin paused at the base, hand on railing. Her side hitched with each breath—ribs protesting the rat's earlier slam. She nodded anyway. Started up.
First flight: Slow. Yoo-jin's pipe dragged on steps, metal scraping. Each lift of her leg sent a jolt through her torso—sharp, like knives twisting. Sweat beaded on her forehead, mixing with dried blood. Si-hun followed, his own body a traitor. Phantom echoes lingered—bones grinding from the clone's mauling, muscles twitching with remembered tears. His steps felt heavy, knees protesting the climb.
Second flight: Yoo-jin stumbled halfway. Pipe clattered. She caught herself on the wall, gasping. "Shit." Ribs burned—cracked, maybe fractured. Breathing shallow to avoid the fire. Si-hun waited. No help offered. She straightened, pipe retrieved. Kept going.
Third floor. Corridor littered with papers, overturned chairs, dried blood arcs on walls. One door hung ajar—Suite 304, faculty nameplate still readable: Dr. Kim Min-seok, Associate Professor of Biology.
Si-hun nudged the door wider with his boot. Inside: overturned coffee table, books scattered, couch torn open. Three zombies—former academics—shambled in the living room. One still wore a cardigan, sleeves shredded. Another clutched a broken clipboard like a shield.
Yoo-jin moved first, despite the pain. Pipe arced low—cracked the clipboard zombie's knee. It dropped. She reversed, drove the end into its temple. Crack. But the swing pulled at her side—agony lanced through her ribs, vision spotting white. She staggered, nearly dropping.
Si-hun finished the other two—desk leg to jaw, then skull. Brains on carpet. [+1 Day. Pool: 146 Days.] [+1. 147 Days.] His arms ached from the effort, phantom claws still scraping his mind's edges.
The room fell quiet except for their breathing. Yoo-jin leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. Blood crusted on her knuckles, fresh splits from gripping the pipe too hard. Bruises bloomed purple along her ribs, visible through torn shirt. She winced when she exhaled.
Si-hun locked the door. Barred it with the coffee table—dragged it across the floor, wood screeching. His back screamed—echoed strains from the clone's rips. Knees nearly buckled under the weight. He shoved it into place, breath coming in gasps. Sweat stung his eyes. This safe house—earned with every drop.
He pulled the last duplicated water bottle from his pack. Took a long drink. Then looked at her.
"You stink," he said flatly.
She gave a tired laugh that turned into a cough, hand pressing her side. "You too."
He opened the bathroom door. Tiles cracked, mirror spiderwebbed, but the showerhead still hung. No water, of course. City lines long dead.
He held up an empty plastic bottle—once water, now just container. Focused.
[Duplicate? Target: Clean Water. Cost: 2 Days. Y/N.]
Warm blue light pulsed. Bottle refilled—crystal clear, no sediment. He did it again. Another bottle. Then a small bar of soap he'd scavenged earlier—moldy, cracked. Duplicated. Fresh, white, unscented.
[Pool: 145 Days.]
He set them on the sink counter.
"Wash. You first."
Yoo-jin stared at the bottles like they were divine. Water—from nothing. In a world where taps ran dry, rivers poisoned, this was miracle. Her hands shook as she took one—fingers trembling from exhaustion and awe. Poured a stream over her palm. Clear. Cold. Real.
She peeled off her torn shirt—slow, careful. Ribs mottled black and violet, swollen on the left side. Breathing hurt just looking at it. She stepped under the dry showerhead. Poured water over her head. It ran red-brown at first—blood, dirt, rat gore—then clearer. She worked the soap into her hair, down her arms, scrubbing until skin pinked. The smell of decay finally lifted, replaced by faint clean soap and wet concrete.
Si-hun waited outside the door. When she emerged—wrapped in a scavenged bath towel, hair dripping—he stepped in. Same ritual. Water sluiced black rivulets down his chest, carrying away dried blood, pus, sweat. He scrubbed hard, skin reddening under pressure. The physical grime peeled away—rat stench fading, replaced by neutral clean. But memories clung. As suds swirled down the drain, he smelled it again—phantom bile and blood from the clone's guts spilling. The hot breath of the rat on his neck, even here. Water couldn't wash that. The system's price etched deeper than skin—death's aftertaste, lingering in his nostrils, his mind.
Back in the living room, he duplicated more: painkillers—generic ibuprofen from an empty blister pack he'd found. Soft foam brace for ribs. Bandages.
[Cost: 3 Days total. Pool: 142 Days.]
He handed her the brace and pills.
"Wrap tight. Take two. Don't move too much."
She nodded. Sat on the couch—careful, slow. Winced as she strapped the brace. Swallowed the pills dry. Color returned faintly to her cheeks.
Si-hun sat across from her on the floor. Opened his backpack. Pulled out the harvested parts: one curved incisor—yellow-white, razor-edged. Three claws—black, hooked, still glistening at the base where he'd cut them free.
He laid them on the coffee table.
The system window appeared unbidden.
[Mutant Biomaterial Detected: Giant Zombie Rat Components.]
[Analysis: High mutation density. (Requires Level 4+ unlock)]
[Storage recommended. Do not consume raw.]
Si-hun stared at the text. No glowing prompt to absorb. No auto-craft. Just cold, vague data. Level 4. He looked at the yellow incisor on the table. The hooked claws. High mutation density. What happens at Level 4? Do these become weapons? Or... do they become part of him? He pictured a clone forced to assimilate these parts—claws tearing through human knuckles, incisors shattering human jawbones to make room. A grotesque hybrid. Was power worth that? Abandoning his form for efficiency? The system tempted with vague promises, hiding the true cost. He pushed the thought down. For now, store. Later... decide.
He wrapped each piece in torn cloth—careful, almost reverent—then zipped them into an inner pocket of the backpack. Yoo-jin watched him the entire time. Silent.
"You're not just surviving," she said finally. Voice low. "You're planning something bigger."
He met her eyes. No warmth there. Only calculation.
"I'm planning tomorrow," he said. "And the day after. That's all that matters."
She leaned back against the couch, ribs protesting. Closed her eyes.
Outside, distant groans drifted on the wind. The city wasn't done with them yet.
But inside Suite 304—for the first time in days—they had walls, water, soap, and a future edge sharper than any pipe.