The world had died long before she woke up.
The air was thick with the stench of rot—flesh, asphalt, and something metallic. It wasn't unusual. The city had been decaying for years, but today, the weight of its ruin felt heavier. Maybe it was the humidity pressing in from the broken skyline or the suffocating silence that followed the chaos of the night before. All she knew was that the city was empty, but not in the way she thought it should be.
Empty, but alive.
She had learned quickly that she wasn't alone.
Her boots scraped against the cracked pavement, the echo of each step swallowed by the fog that clung to every corner. The once-bustling streets were now dead—no cars, no people, only the occasional broken storefront to remind her of what had been. Her sailor uniform, faded and torn from endless encounters with the unrelenting forces of this new world, clung to her like a ghost of her past. The edges of the collar were frayed, but she hadn't been able to part with it. Something in her mind—the last shreds of a memory—told her it was important.
Important… but to who?
Her grip tightened around the handle of her sword. It had been with her for as long as she could remember. No one had given it to her. It was just… there. The blade hummed with an eerie, almost unnatural vibration. She didn't know why it felt like a part of her, only that it did. A cold rush of energy surged through her veins whenever she held it, like the sword itself was alive, or perhaps, she was the one who had become part of it.
The city around her felt wrong—everywhere she looked, things had been ripped apart. Buildings weren't just destroyed; they had been… shredded, as though some force had torn them from the inside out. The windows were shattered, the concrete cracked wide open like a wound, spilling out metal bones and wires, remnants of a society that no longer functioned.
She scanned her surroundings, listening for the telltale signs of movement—shuffling feet, low groans. They were close, she could feel it. They always were.
The creatures, the infected, the ones she called them because that's all they were anymore—they had no real names. They were only hunger and rage. The ones she encountered were often slow, lumbering, driven by something primal. But there were others, the ones who moved faster, who remembered something of what they had been. Those were the ones she feared. The ones who had the potential to be something more than mindless shells.
They had been coming for days. There had been no respite.
The first groan broke the silence. She didn't hesitate. Her instincts kicked in before she even had time to think.
Without turning, she launched herself into a sprint, the wind tugging at her torn skirt as she pushed forward, feet pounding the asphalt. Her mind was focused, but her body was already several steps ahead. She felt the air shift around her, a rush of energy, and before she knew it, the sword was already out of its sheath.
The first zombie—a hulking mass of decaying flesh and tattered clothes—appeared from behind a broken pillar. Its yellow eyes locked onto her in an instant, and it lunged forward with unnatural speed. But she was faster.
The sword met the creature's throat with a clean slice, and the decapitated head fell to the ground in a lifeless thud. But there was no time to stop. More were coming.
Two more emerged from the shadows, their skin pale and blistered, their movements jerky. She twisted in midair, the blade flashing in the dim light like a streak of lightning. She felt the rush of power course through her as she danced between them, her strikes swift and precise, cutting through their frail bodies. One fell, the other tried to swipe at her, but she ducked under its reach, the tip of her blade finding its way into the soft tissue beneath the thing's ribcage.
The creature gurgled, its body collapsing as she pulled her sword free, spinning away before its lifeless corpse could fall on her.
She didn't stop to look. She couldn't. More were coming. They always did.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she broke into a run again, faster this time, her legs pushing harder, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She darted through the streets, weaving between crumbling buildings, her feet finding purchase on the uneven ground. Her senses were on high alert, every fiber of her being tuned to the rhythms of the world around her. The scent of decay hung thick in the air, but there was something else beneath it, too. A faint, metallic tang. A warning.
She had been in these streets before. She knew what came next.
From an alleyway to her right, a figure stepped out—a man, disheveled, wide-eyed, holding a crowbar in his shaking hands. His clothes were torn, but there was something about him that seemed more… human than the others.
A survivor.
She stopped in her tracks, her sword held at the ready, but she didn't attack. Not yet. She'd learned not to trust anyone. In this world, survival came first, and anyone who wasn't a threat was usually just another obstacle.
The man staggered toward her, his face pale and smeared with dirt. His breath came in ragged bursts. "You… You killed them. You killed the monsters," he gasped, eyes wild. He pointed a trembling hand at the fallen zombies. "You're… you're one of them, aren't you? One of the Subjects."
Her heart skipped at the word.
The man continued, his voice filled with desperation. "You're the one they were talking about. Subject Zero, the one who can—" He cut himself off, looking around nervously, as though expecting someone to appear out of nowhere. "I need your help," he whispered urgently. "The rest of them—there's more of us, but… we can't do this alone."
Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't interested in saving anyone. She had learned long ago that it was a mistake to care. Still, something about the man's voice—something in the way he said it—made her pause.
The man took a step closer. "You have no idea what's out there. But I can help you. I know who you are… and I know what you need. Please."
She hesitated. Her sword lowered just slightly, but she didn't speak. She didn't trust him. And she definitely didn't trust whatever he thought she could do.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, as if in response to some unspoken signal, the sound of footsteps echoed in the distance—heavy, fast, growing closer. The groans of the infected followed, growing louder. The man's eyes widened in terror. He backed up, gripping the crowbar tighter.
"Please," he said, voice cracking. "You can't leave us here. They're coming. They're coming for all of us."
She didn't respond. There wasn't time to explain. There was never time.
Without another word, she turned and ran, leaving the man behind, his voice swallowed by the night. The sword hummed in her grip as she cut through the streets, always moving forward, always searching for the truth she couldn't quite remember.
But she knew one thing: She wasn't the only one out there. And she wasn't the only one who had been changed.
The city was full of secrets. And they were all waiting to be uncovered.