"ROAR!!!"

After the frantic footsteps, I stared blankly as the zombie crashing through the window fell like a slow-motion movie scene. For a moment, we locked eyes—its rabbit-red gaze meeting mine.

But it only felt slow. In reality, the zombie plummeted fast. Seconds later, a dull thud echoed below.

"THUD!"

I don’t know why, but I waved toward where it fell and murmured, "Amitabha." Then I turned back to the window above.

"Is that all?"

*Cough*... Yeah, nothing else.

Once I confirmed no more zombies would pull that bizarre stunt, I swept the windowsill with my bundle. Shards of glass clattered down. When the clatter stopped, I resecured the bundle to my body. I took a breath, slightly lowered my center of gravity, and pushed off hard with both feet.

"YAH!!!"

Weird—I’d expected a "Hmph-ha!" shout, not this girly "Yah!" Maybe my throat’s structure just favors this sound for exertion.

Anyway, I finally gripped the window frame tight. With great effort, I climbed in. Standing on the sill, I eyed the glass-strewn floor and my slippers, lost during the climb. I had to jump to a clearer spot.

"SLAP!"

My bare feet hit the tiles. Thank goodness for my balance—

"Ah!" My body lurched instantly. I plopped down hard on my butt.

"Hssssss... What balance? Front-heavy and back-light!" I sucked in a sharp breath, glaring at the twin mounds on my chest. "Stupid things," I muttered.

...

I stood, brushed off the dust, and scanned the room. Same old setup: two hospital beds, standard single-room gear—TV, clock, all fully equipped. By moonlight, I checked the digital clock. Good, it still showed the correct time.

02:22

"Half past two already?" I murmured under my breath. My next move troubled me.

Leaving now? Too risky. Even with perfect night vision, darkness brought inconveniences. So...

"Do I wait for daytime?"

I glanced around. The closed door still bore bloodstains. "What’s that?"

On the red-splattered surface, something shouldn’t be there. I hurried over, crouched, and gently touched a small hole near waist height. Splinters of shattered wood surrounded it. My heart skipped.

"A bullet hole?"

Definitely a bullet hole.

I turned, checking for other damage. Nothing. I recalled online posts about bullet physics: high penetration makes a small entry wound, but the exit tears a huge hole. Like a shot through the chest—tiny front hole, back blown wide. Here, only one clean hole with splinters. So...

"A gun?!"

I froze. That zombie leaping out the window—I’d glimpsed its clothes during our stare-down.

"Was that... a police uniform?"

Night blurred colors, but under moonlight, the fabric looked dark. If it was a dark blue uniform, then...

"His gun must still be here!"

I spun, scanning the floor. No bullet holes, no gun—just bloody footprints. They led to a bed. Sheets tangled, stained with blood. He’d run in, shot the zombie outside, then collapsed here, wounded. The leg injury made sense—the hole sat at 1.2 meters, so he’d fired seated after shutting the door. The upward angle proved it: a blind shot from the floor, killing the zombie instantly. Why instantly? If it lived, would he rest here?

"Following this..."

I checked the bedside cabinet’s three drawers. Tissues, a cup—nothing else. Then I eyed the blood-soaked bed. Reaching under the sheets, my hand brushed something cold and hard.

*Yes!* I pulled it out. A pistol. The shape...

"Type 64!"

I’d skimmed this model while researching novels. My memory stunned me—I used to forget keys daily, fearing early Alzheimer’s.

"Is this body’s perk too?" I touched my chest, then recoiled. Trying to joke backfired; sorrow flooded in.

I shook my head. Long hair swayed with the motion. Then I remembered the unopened knife in the cabinet. Setting the gun down, I yanked the drawer open. There—second layer—a 10cm knife. Without hesitation, I flicked my hair over my shoulder like a shampoo commercial and raised the blade.

*Is this too girly?*

"RIIIIP!"

My hair snapped off. I dropped the knife. Then—shock.

"It’s growing back?!" I whispered. The chopped strands writhed like living things, reaching waist-length in seconds. Every pore prickled; my scalp tingled—not from growth, but terror. Anyone would panic seeing hair sprint like this. *Are aliens nesting up there?* Goosebumps erupted. I just had to say it:

"Scared the baby out of me!"

...Okay, I said it. My hair settled at butt-level—ahem, buttocks-level. Weakness washed over me, like post-workout fatigue. My stomach growled.

"Hungry already?" I sighed, staring at the regrown locks. "Guess I’m stuck with this hair."

It seemed fixed at this length. Harmless, at least. But the speed unsettled me. Worse—it drained my energy. I’d felt fine moments ago, but now hunger gnawed. Food was scarce. A month without power? Fresh produce rotted. Meat, veggies, frozen goods—all spoiled. Survivors would’ve looted every store instantly. Convenience foods? Gone. Panic rose, useless.

I flopped onto the clean bed, fiddling with the Type 64. I slid out the magazine—"clack!"—and counted six rounds. It held nine.

*Is there one in the chamber too?*

Every bullet mattered now.