The wound was gone, but dried blood still clung to my scalp. I scratched it off with my fingers, then shook my head—ah, instant coolness.

"My hair’s growing at a freakish speed… and this insane healing… Could it be… after that thing bit me, I mutated too?"

I answered my own question.

"Seems like it. And this new body? Probably the virus rewriting my genes."

Maybe. But the odds were microscopic. Lucky me—I’d only gotten my XY genes tweaked, nothing else.

I stuffed glucose packets into my bag, frowning as I rubbed my head.

Emergency rations secured. But glucose alone wouldn’t cut it long-term. Humans need more than sugar to survive.

Right now? I craved real food.

As if the apocalypse heard me, I glanced into a closed hospital room—and froze. Snacks. Mountains of them.

Right there on the shelf.

Sealed sausages… roasted pork links… potato chips! Holy crap—even Kangshifu instant noodles!!

A month of starvation hit me all at once. My mouth watered uncontrollably.

Let’s be clear: I’m not a foodie. Absolutely not.

Kangshifu + Jinluo sausages… my brain short-circuited to Sichuan boiled fish. Zero logic. Blame my overactive imagination.

Sichuan boiled fish… crystal pork knuckle… braised beef… chicken stewed with mushrooms…

"*Hssk—*"

I wiped imaginary drool. The glucose in my stomach vanished. My eyes locked onto that snack bag again.

Next thought: If this were an anime, someone’d yell, "*Apocalypse Kitchen!*"

But focus. Three zombies lurked in that room.

Probably hid here with their snacks when they were human. Failed. My stomach growled. I licked my dry lips.

"Going in."

Men die for wealth. Birds die for bait.

Today? I’d be that bird.

…Did I just call myself a bird-person? Weird.

I pulled out my pistol. No way I’d face three zombies barehanded.

At point-blank range? Even a drunk couldn’t miss.

I double-checked the safety. That near-death fight earlier—where I’d forgotten to disengage it—still haunted me.

Gripping the gun, I watched the zombies. All far from the door. I counted silently.

"*Three… two… one!!!*"

I yanked the door open. All three snapped their heads toward me. Rabbit-red eyes. Ice flooded my veins.

No hesitation. All-in or die.

"*ROAR!*"

They lunged. I raised the pistol, aimed at the closest one, and fired.

"*BANG!!!*"

Recoil slammed my wrist. Good thing I’d braced—I’d have dislocated it otherwise.

But hell yeah. First shot? Perfect headshot. Years of "practice" paid off.

*Not the time for dirty thoughts.*

The other two charged. I dodged, slammed the door shut, and braced my back against it.

"*THUD!*"

One zombie crashed into the door. Nearly knocked me flying.

"Tch! Strong bastard!"

Before I steadied myself—

"*THUD!!*"

The second hit. My feet skidded. Teeth gritted, I held firm. Through the window, I locked eyes with a zombie. Bloodshot. Hungry.

"*THUD! THUD! THUD!*"

They rammed the door, snarling. But…

"Heh… die already."

I aimed between those red eyes and pulled the trigger.

"*BANG!*"

One down. Easy.

I holstered the pistol. Pulled out my 10cm fruit knife. Bullets were precious. Unlike *certain* white fluids, they didn’t magically refill overnight.

*Ahem. Focus.*

I crept to the door’s edge, watching the zombie by the broken window. Hand on the lock.

Inside, the last zombie kept slamming the door. Zero brainpower.

I timed its rhythm.

"*THUD! THUD! THUD!*"

"*Now!!!*"

I twisted the lock. The zombie lunged—

"*CRASH!!*"

With no door to stop it, the zombie tumbled out, neck twisting 180 degrees to glare at me.

"*Hssss—*"

That stare. That hunger. Pure terror.

No time. If it regained balance, its strength would crush me.

But now? Off-balance. It face-planted into the opposite wall.

"*THUD!!*"

I sprinted over, straddled its back, and drove the knife down.

"*Squelch!!*"

Blade buried to the hilt. The zombie convulsed once. Silence.

I wiped sweat off my brow. Risking my neck for snacks? Not my style. But hunger makes fools of us all.

Though… "riches" was a stretch for a few sausages.

"*Plop.*" I yanked out the knife, wiped the weird-colored blood on the zombie’s shirt, and stood. Dusting off, I grabbed the entire snack bag.

No hesitation. I tore open a sausage pack and devoured it.

Eating sausage in the apocalypse? Guess I was lucky.

Chewing the familiar taste, I thought: *This isn’t a meal. Just two sausages. Save the rest.*

I packed everything portable. Crushed potato chips into a tiny crossbody bag.

Patting the overstuffed bag, I nodded. Then drew my pistol and headed for the emergency stairs.

At the stairwell door, unease prickled. I drew the fruit knife too. Left hand knife, right hand gun—missing only a grenade in my teeth.

"*Squeeeeak…*"

The door’s groan echoed in the silent hall. Every tiny sound amplified.

Muscles tense, I scanned the bright stairwell. City Hospital had good lighting. Bloodstains and debris littered the steps, but it was cleaner than the ward hallway.

I stepped in carefully, bracing the pistol on my left wrist. Those two shots taught me respect for recoil. Easier this way. And yeah—it looked damn cool.

*Stop joking, idiot.*

I checked behind the door—movie logic saved lives. Clear. I exhaled, loosening my jeans.

"Too tight…"

Not my waist. My *ass*. Every step felt awkward. The waistband sagged, but thankfully, denim held.

Relieved, I scanned the stairs. Left: down. Right: up.

No contest. I focused, heading down.

Sunlight streamed through windows. Light killed fear. Humans scared themselves silly in the dark.

No real obstacles. Just abandoned bags. I scavenged everything: wet wipes, phones, car keys. Swapped the crossbody bag for a backpack.

Bandages. Another Zippo lighter. *No cops to stop me now.*

…Even two packs of sanitary pads.

I stared at them. Hesitated. Then, eyes shut, stuffed them in the bag.

Ten floors down. No heavy breathing. Just a light sweat. Before the apocalypse? Running 300 meters left me gasping. Stairs? Forget it.