Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one announced the end of the world. Not like in the movies or TV shows. There were no sirens, no countdowns, no red-rimmed headlines. It was just a flu. A slight cough.

People said it was the air, the changing weather, the stress. The newspapers assured everyone it was common, nothing to worry about. The internet, almost like a living organism, bubbled with conspiracy theories—they said it was a biological weapon, a government ploy to reduce the population, or a failed experiment. Most of these came from people everyone else called crazy or deniers.

Then came the warnings: stay home, wear a mask, avoid contact. It's just the flu, they said. But people didn't die, not really.

They just got sick, very sick.

Sick to the point of hospitals collapsing.

But no one died.

They just started acting strange. Jisung heard something about the virus attacking the nervous system. Something like that. He barely remembers.

As a recluse, the idea of being locked inside wasn't bad. At first, he thought it would be good. He didn't see the chaos outside, the packed supermarkets, the fights, the people fleeing.
He kept to his routine: wake up, work, sleep. He kept sending his freelance work, until the emails stopped getting replies. Three days without a response. That made him uneasy.

At first, he didn't think much of it. He could still hear the neighbors, the couple in 302 fighting, the dog in 401 barking, the broken elevator. Those sounds were reminders that the world still existed, that life continued behind his apartment door.

Then, one day, everything was ruined.
It started with the television. The screen went black while he was watching the same documentary about whales. "2:00 a.m." blinked in the corner before it died completely.
Jisung, too sleepy to care, just stuck a post-it on the monitor: call the technician.
And went to sleep.

Hours later, the world plunged into irreversible chaos.

He was a solitary creature. His universe was that small apartment. Sometimes he went days without seeing the sun. The curtains closed, the air heavy, the silence.
When it all began, it got worse. The clocks stopped when the batteries died. His phone went dark when the power died. Each day was longer, darker.

And then, after what felt like a decade of silence, the building exploded into chaos. Screams, doors slamming, walls creaking, pleas for help. Someone pounded on his door several times.
But the sounds, the sounds weren't human.

Jisung looked out the window. The world was in its death throes. There was too much smoke on the horizon. And he was absolutely terrified. The world was sick. And Jisung was worse off.
Trapped in a moldy room, afraid to even breathe too loud, afraid his footsteps would betray his existence.
Jisung was afraid of everything, but he was more afraid of dying.

Damn it.

Han Jisung just wanted to survive.

Despite everything, despite the fear that paralyzed him, he still wanted to live.
That small, insistent, almost pathetic desire was what finally pushed him out of bed, eight months after the world fell apart.

The apartment, once his refuge, now smelled of mold, dust, and sadness. The faded walls, the curtains jammed shut by rust, the dishes and wrappers piled in the sink. The water had run out days ago. The food, weeks ago. Not even the sound of the wind against the windows could disguise the silence swallowing him, but it carried a strong odor. Jisung couldn't identify the smell, something like spoiled food at the back of the fridge and the mold on the bathroom walls.

He put on the warmest clothes he could find: a worn-out hoodie, an old jacket, and heavy boots he'd never worn. He gathered what was left: an expired pack of crackers, two bottles of dirty water he'd saved over the last few weeks, a flashlight with a dying beam, and a notebook he no longer knew why he kept. He stuffed it all into an old backpack, as if it were enough to face the end of the world.

Before leaving, he looked around.
The sofa where he'd slept for months. The window he rarely opened. The stopped clock, forever reading 4:03, the time the power died for the last time. And then his eyes fell on something forgotten in the corner: a baseball bat. It was from his father. He'd gotten it as a teenager, one summer when things still seemed normal. The handle was worn, the wood scratched, but when Jisung gripped it, he felt a strange kind of comfort. Not courage, it would never be that. But a memory of what it felt like to be safe, protected by someone.

He couldn't bring himself to take any knives. He didn't trust them. He was afraid of their cold weight in his hands, afraid of what he might be capable of if he had to use one. The bat was different, more familiar, less threatening.
It was his only defense.

He sighed, trying to muster his courage. The door separated him from a new world, a world reborn in the worst way possible. He'd always been afraid of the old one. But this new one, this new one would be infinitely worse.

When he turned the doorknob, the cold air from the hallway hit him like a slap. The building was silent. The smell outside was worse, an acidic, rotten stench that burned his nostrils. Over the last few weeks, Jisung had noticed a pattern. At night, the non-humans were slower, heavier, less fierce. He deduced they were diurnal, which made no sense, but offered some small comfort. That's why he chose to leave at nightfall. The sky was a mix of orange and red, as if the world was still trying to burn away what was left.

Jisung took a deep breath. One, two times.

And he took his first step outside.

He didn't look back.

He walked slowly down the empty corridor, his heart beating too loud, the bat gripped tight in his hands. With every step, he expected to hear something, a shuffle, a sigh, anything.
But there was only the distant sound of the wind beating against broken windows. The door to the ground floor was busted. It lay on its side, as if torn off with violence. The iron was twisted, the walls stained with dried blood. As he started down the narrow stairs, he saw it. And he immediately wished he hadn't.

It was a thing.

A body that moved, but no longer seemed human. Long, matted hair covered its face; its burned skin was peeling off in chunks that dripped onto the floor. Its bones jutted out as if trying to escape the flesh. The creature was crawling up the last few steps, emitting a raspy, guttural sound.

Jisung swallowed dryly.

He needed to get out of there.
This was a test; he needed to prove to himself he could survive. He descended carefully, his eyes fixed on it, the bat held out in front of him like a shield. Three steps. Three steps and he'd be free.

But then came the scream. A sharp, deafening sound that made him cover his ears. The creature convulsed, and Jisung noticed its legs were bound with wire, cutting deep into the flesh. There was something human there. The knot was clean, precise. Someone had done that. The scream, he realized too late, wasn't from pain. It was a warning.

Then came the footsteps. Heavy, hurried, echoing from the floors above. Jisung's heart stumbled in his chest. And then he ran. He leapt down the stairs, the bat firm in his hands, the sound of his own footsteps mixing with the screams from above. In the lobby, he barely stopped to breathe.
He ran.

Outside, the wind struck him, cold and dirty. The streets were dark, the air thick, and he realized other creatures were following him.
Jisung ran. The bat in his hands. His heart on fire.

And the only thing he could think was: don't stop. not now.

He only felt truly safe when the silence returned. Those things screamed, a sharp, pained, and irregular sound, but there was something organized about it. It was communication, of some kind. When one of them made a noise, the others moved in the same direction, like bees responding to their queen. They seemed blind, guided only by sound. That was Jisung's guess, from watching how they dragged themselves blindly across the asphalt. If they hunted by noise, he would have to learn to be invisible. Hiding wasn't enough; he would have to become completely silent.

His heart took a long time to slow down. The sky, at last, grew fully dark, and the remaining lights were few and far between, small street lamps lit here and there, as if the city was still breathing by reflex. Maybe there were living people nearby. The idea didn't seem very comforting; he was more afraid of people now, not knowing how they lived in this new world.

But at least, at night, those creatures seemed to withdraw. If they avoided the light, maybe they also had trouble seeing in the dark. A chance. A slim thread of survival.
And that was enough.

He walked through streets he no longer recognized until he found a small convenience store. The door was shattered. Inside, the floor was a graveyard of things: toppled shelves, torn packaging, the smell of mold and old blood. Everything was looted. With a sigh, Jisung started looking for food, anything. There was no water, no canned goods. Just trash.

Just as he was about to give up, he saw a crushed package of instant noodles, thrown in the middle of the garbage. He stood still for a moment, staring at it as if it were a lie.

He knelt down, picked up the package, and, unable to contain his emotions, he cried.
He cried until his chest hurt, clutching the package as if it were something precious. And in the chaos surrounding him, it truly was.

Chapter Text

There is no real sense of how dangerous the world is until you've been through extreme situations.

Jisung had never been good with stress. He sweated too much, his body grew heavy, and his mind went blank. It was horrible to watch the world crumble before his eyes while fear paralyzed his limbs. So, he retreated into his home. It was safe there. No judging stares, no strange voices. He could simply exist.

 He was certain he would spend his life like that: quiet, controlled, predictable. He just wanted to feel safe. Even if there was something wrong with him. But now,trapped between a lack of safety and the need to survive, he knew nothing would ever be the same again. 

Nothing.

Reality was cruel, forcing him to wipe the brain matter oozing through his fingers and the blood staining his clothes. The thing that had intercepted him when he tried to break into a laundromat was stronger than the others he'd encountered. It ran faster, bared its teeth, and tried to scream, or moan, as its body collapsed. It was the first one Jisung had seen that didn't call a horde.

It was a shame he couldn't get any soap. As ridiculous as it seemed, he wished he could wash his clothes, or himself. The dried blood caked on his skin and under his nails made him sick. Jisung was never used to going so long without cleaning himself, but now it was a constant reminder of how far from normal things were. 

Fourteen days had passed since he left home.Twelve encounters with the non-humans, three of which nearly ended badly. It was a good number,in a way. It meant he was learning. 

Although he was completely incompetent when it came to physical exertion, what kept him alive was his ability to hide. He was small enough to squeeze into places those things couldn't reach. Luck, perhaps. Or something divine. Jisung had never been religious, but the world he lived in now had taught him to pray to any god still willing to listen. And maybe it was working, because the little place he'd found was wonderfully quiet, even with the sun shining brighter than ever and the distant sound of dragging feet outside.

 It was a café, hidden on the second floor of a building on a narrow street. The walls were painted in shades of light pink and black; it seemed made for a specific crowd, perhaps alternative youth, with posters of a girl band he'd never heard of. "The 5.6.7.8's" – the name shone in yellow on a banner hung at the entrance.

There were records and souvenirs on the shelves, clean, organized. It was cute. Almost normal.

Jisung rushed to what looked like the kitchen and found the cupboards full, a dream come true. The perishable food was ruined, a sour smell permeating every corner, but there was rice and Spam. A familiar wave of emotion washed over him,warm and clumsy, like every other time he found something that would keep him alive for one more day. 

And, as always, he ended up crying. Crying like an idiot. Canned meat was a luxury.Rice, too. He just needed to figure out how to cook it. But he was tired. The days of pure instinct were taking their toll.

Jisung had never been strong, let alone athletic; he barely used the building's gym before everything happened. So, he barricaded the café door and improvised a bed with old cloths, right in front of the large glass window overlooking the narrow street. He ate three cans of meat, like a miserable king on a throne of scraps. 

Lying down after so many days felt almost like a gift. His head was heavy, his muscles ached, and his mind spun nonstop. Even when he found a somewhat safe place,sleep came with too many images: things crawling, running toward him, grunting, skin sloughing off, acidic smell.

Zombies: it was the closest name he could give them.

His eyes grew heavy. The sun, now weaker, streamed through the glass and warmed the room. It lulled him into a light, restless sleep. He knew he was sleeping,but he couldn't wake up. He was back in the apartment. The door being forced open. Many of them pouring in. Him, alone, with nowhere to hide. His mind tortured him, dragging him through that room again, until he felt their teeth getting close, ready to take more from him than just his life. 

And then, a noise. 

An engine.

Then another. 

A heavy roar that cut through the air.

 Jisung jolted upright. 

The street seemed deserted, but the sound was getting closer, louder and louder. And then, screams. His breath caught. 

They were loud, guttural screams, mixed with something impossible: the beat of music. 

Music.

 For real. 

Human. 

Jisung hadn't heard anything like it since he left home. Nothing but death, silence, and the rotten sound of things dragging themselves along. But now, there was rhythm, sound, voices. Lights began to gleam on the asphalt, piercing the night's darkness. A motorcycle zoomed past, its engine roaring loudly.

Behind it, an ATV. 

Then, more bikes. 

And the screams weren't just coming from the riders. A zombie, chained to the ATV, was being dragged along, thrashing and howling. The people,the first he'd seen in months, were strange. They wore exaggerated clothes, full of ornaments. They laughed. Screamed. They seemed drunk on adrenaline. And as they celebrated, more and more non-humans began to follow them, attracted by the sound, the lights, the chaos. 

Even though he was scared, Jisung felt pity. Pity for that creature being dragged like a broken toy. 

When the noise finally faded into the distance, he sat down on his makeshift bed. He looked at the barricade. Then, at his own hands. Humans. 

People. 

Alive. 

Happy. 

Terrifyingly human. 

Were they trustworthy? 

No. 

Jisung trembled and curled up among the cloths. Humans were unpredictable. Perhaps even more dangerous than the monsters outside. Because the monsters had only one goal. 

Humans did not.

☆ 

Jisung made the small café his new shelter. It wasn't a difficult choice for a temporary residence;there was food, a faint sense of security, and a good view of the street. In the following days, he observed the flow of people.

 Very human people. 

It was a group: at least three men and five women, with colored hair and leather clothes, as if they'd looted a Louis Vuitton store. They passed by the street frequently, so Jisung assumed they lived nearby. They rode by on motorcycles, and sometimes in a Jeep. They were loud, laughed loudly, and seemed to completely ignore the zombies. Sometimes the street was empty; other times, it was swarming with creatures. Jisung was sure that was the neighbors' fault.

The group seemed wild. And he wouldn't attempt to associate with them. After much internal deliberation, and many hours walking and talking to himself, Jisung decided to put any contact with people aside and focus solely on survival. It wasn't safe.

 The only thing that disturbed his little sanctuary was the lack of water. He still smelled of blood and rotten flesh and hadn't changed his clothes in days. He needed something clean and, more than that, he needed water to drink. So, as soon as the sun set, he grabbed his baseball bat and went down to the street. He knew that two blocks away, there was a laundromat, and those places usually kept some water in stock.

He just needed one gallon, maybe a little to wash his face. It would be quick.

He found nothing at the first stop; the place was completely empty. At the second spot, he had more luck: a ransacked pharmacy, the floor covered in bottles and boxes. A zombie was crawling through the glass, its feet trapped in a toppled shelf. Jisung passed it carefully, avoiding any noise, and went to the stockroom. He found few medicines, but two packs of water rested on a shelf. It was like finding gold. He hid one of the packs among the debris,knowing he couldn't carry both, and practically ran back to the café. 

At night, the "neighbors" had parties, and with the noise, always came more non-humans. Jisung returned to the café with a slight sense of accomplishment. As the door closed behind him, he pushed tables and chairs to block any unwanted visitors. He crouched to pick up the water gallon from the floor when he heard something that froze his body.

A laugh. 

Light.

Carefree. 

Right behind him. 

The air seemed to grow heavy. The baseball bat was inches from his feet. He turned slowly, every muscle on alert, every sound amplified by the silence of the place. 

Two pairs of eyes watched him. 

Two men. 

The first was tall, handsome in a way that felt wrong. The clothes stained with dried blood, the piercings glinting in the low light, and the sharp gaze screamed danger. The other was no less impressive. He wore a long leather coat and moved with a disconcerting calm. He was sitting on one of the tables, spinning a knife between his fingers as if it were part of his own body, his eyes fixed on Jisung, watching him like someone examining prey too curious to kill immediately. 

"We saw you leaving earlier," said the taller one, his voice amused, too sweet for the moment. "Then I told Channie we should check out the little mouse's den. Looked so cozy." 

Jisung felt his heart race,each beat hammering in his temples. The taller one leaned in a little, sniffing the air around him, his eyes narrowing with feline curiosity, as if he could sense something Jisung couldn't comprehend. 

"I like him," he continued, his voice still low, almost a whisper. "Look how he's trembling." 

Jisung's body froze. His feet wanted to run, but the barricade he himself had built would delay any attempt long enough for him to be caught. The other one approached,silent, each step measured, imposing. His presence filled the space, crushing the air and making it impossible to think of escape. 

Jisung swallowed dryly, smelling the faint scent of leather and something else, strange, intense, almost magnetic.

"But…" he said, tilting his head, his eyes fixed on him, "he's still a pure human. Smells like one." Jisung felt his head spinning,his breath short, almost suffocating. Icy cold hands touched the side of his neck, firm and cold as metal. A shiver ran down his spine.