"I’ve never been brave. When chaos broke out, I ran—straight to the villa district. Thankfully, it still seemed untouched. Just as I was about to enter, a blood-soaked figure burst out from inside, screaming for help. In that instant, every hair on my body stood on end!"

The handwriting here trembled violently, betraying sheer terror.

"In my panic, I shoved past the guards and locked myself in this booth. Outside, one guard’s agonized shriek cut through the air. Then came frantic pounding on the door—the other guard. I was too scared to open it…"

"I didn’t open it. Guilt gnawed at me. Peeking through the crack, I saw both guards had turned into monsters. Yet they didn’t leave. They just… lingered by the door. Were they hating me?"

The diary ended there on August 8th. I glanced at the corpse on the bed and shook my head.

"Had you shouted to stop them—even saved that one guard pounding on the door… you might not have died in this booth."

Those guards clearly had martial arts training. At the very least, they were big and strong. Calm heads could’ve avoided Zombie bites. Two against one? They’d have found a way to escape.

I set the diary on the table with a sigh. This man died from his own cowardice. No denying—he might’ve survived in the old world. But in this Apocalypse…

Shaking off the thought, I picked up an open logbook on the table. It meticulously recorded vehicle entries: license plates, owners, villa numbers, even car brands.

"Only the rich would keep records this detailed," I muttered, envy twisting my voice.

Seeing the brands listed—Ferrari… Porsche… Jaguar… Mercedes… BMW—my chest tightened. Cars I’d never afford in a lifetime. Dozens logged here. Maybe hundreds.

This book covered one month’s entries. Flipping to the third page, a name caught my eye:

"Wang Lin…"

My breath hitched. That matched the ID card I’d just seen. I traced the line:

"Vehicle: Maserati. Plate: 8528. Residence: Villa 13."

My finger tapped the villa number. I recalled the keys in my pocket.

"A Maserati? Probably not practical."

It wasn’t the brand—it was the model. Maseratis were sports cars or sedans, right? (Forgive my ignorance.)

I kept flipping. Three pages later, the same villa number appeared—but a different name:

"Vehicle: Yamaha sport bike. Plate: 5825. Residence: 13. Owner: Li Jiahui…"

*8528 and 5825… couple plates?*

My finger pressed the "13" on the page.

"A sport bike… that might work."

I’d always preferred bikes over cars. Yamaha was legendary—even decades ago. My father adored them. Maybe blood called to blood; I’d fallen for motorcycles the moment I saw their sleek lines. Mom blocked him from ever buying one: "We have a car. They’re dangerous and expensive." So he’d given up—but whispered their virtues to me when she wasn’t around.

Years later, bikes hadn’t changed much. Yamaha still dominated. Modern sport bikes used repurposed aircraft engines; high-end models even had jet assists. Powerful, heavy beasts. I’d browse official sites, dreaming of riding one down open highways. That dream died with the old world. I’d ridden Dragon Peak’s bike sometimes, but it was never mine.

Now… I might own one. In a world where no one wanted them anymore.

I pulled out the keys, jingling them. Then I checked the villa map pinned to the wall.

"13… 13… here?"

Villa 13 sat at the eastern edge—not close. The garage was deep inside, near the north gate.

*Should I check Wang Lin’s villa first? Then get the bike?*

I studied the keys. Only a Maserati fob. No motorcycle key.

"Was the bike the husband’s?"

I reread the log: "Li… Jiahui?"

Then I remembered Wang Lin’s death. My finger froze on "13." I slammed it decisively.

"Decision made. Find the bike keys at the villa first."

I nodded at the corpse behind me. No words needed.

In this world, the timid die. The reckless die. Only the cautious with mad will survive.

At the iron door, I peered through the viewer. Only two dead Zombies lay on the ground. I drew my combat knife and slowly turned the knob.

Stepping out, I slipped into the waist-high grass hugging the wall. Shadows from decorative shrubs offered cover as I crept forward. I checked my watch:

"11:43."

*That late? Eight hours till dark. Hope today goes smoothly. That helicopter… don’t you dare leave.*

The diary gave few clues—only that the virus hit on August 8th. The same day a fresh-turned Zombie tore flesh from my shoulder.

I touched the scar. No mark remained, but the memory of that raw, ripping pain flared. Not a cut—a chunk of meat ripped straight off.

I shook my head. No time for memories.

Moving along the wall, I scanned for Zombies. Few roamed. I stepped lightly, avoiding conflict. The once-pristine district was now littered with mud, trash, and abandoned belongings. Colorful plastic bags drifted past—I ignored them.

Twenty minutes later, I reached Villa 13. No Zombies nearby. I sheathed my knife, gripping the Samurai Sword’s hilt instead.

A soft *shink* echoed as I drew it. Light caught the blade’s temper lines—beautiful, hypnotic.

Holding it ready, I left the grass. Villas stood far apart, each separated by wide asphalt roads. Without the trash, this place would’ve gleamed.

Clear. I approached the villa marked "13" on its blue gate plaque.

Standard layout: a spiked metal fence, two meters high, wrapped the yard. I hurried to the gate. No movement. I examined the lock.

"Dusty… but smooth."

*No one’s opened this in a while? Was the husband away?*

I eyed the fence height. Standing tall, my fingertips barely brushed the top. Two-point-five meters.

"Two-point-five…"

I frowned, calculating.