The air was thick with rot, an unbearable stench clinging to the back of Cenilera's throat as she staggered back. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her fingers trembling at her sides. The world spun around her, but she forced herself to focus-focus on the present. Not the past.

  Not the blood. Not the screams.

  But the present was no less of a nightmare.

  A fresh wave of undead blocked their path back toward Centerpoint City, their twisted, ruined forms swaying hungrily. The distant glow of burning streetlights cast their grotesque shadows onto the cracked pavement, making them seem larger, more monstrous.

  James and Robert didn't hesitate.

  They bolted for the only other route—

  MidFallen's gate. A towering wall of rusted steel loomed before them, its heavy bolts firmly locked in place. Robert yanked at the handle, his knuckles turning white, but it didn't budge.

  Their one way out was gone.

  And worse, the undead were closing in.

  Their guttural groans grew louder, the sickening shuffle of broken limbs scraping against asphalt ringing in Cenilera's ears like the toll of a funeral bell.

  They were trapped.

  James and Robert exchanged a single glance-one filled with silent understanding, the grim acceptance of men who had fought too long to hesitate now. They stepped forward in unison, weapons raised.

  And the fight began.

  Robert's electrified baton crackled to life, its blue arc flashing against the darkness as it slammed into the nearest undead skull. A wet, burning sizzle filled the air as its rotting flesh and brain cooked under the voltage, the smell a stomach-churning mix of decay and charred meat. It spasmed violently before collapsing, but there was no time to celebrate.

  James was already a blur beside him, his knife flashing silver under the dim light as he buried it into a zombie's skull. He twisted the blade with a practiced, brutal efficiency before yanking it free, sending a spray of blackened blood across his already stained jacket.

  Cenilera stood frozen, her breath ragged, watching them carve through the horde in a brutal ballet of survival. Every movement was precise, honed through loss and necessity.

  The sickening thud of metal meeting flesh.

  The cracking of skulls shattered under impact.

  The garbled moans of the undead as they crumpled, only for more to take their place.

  And then-their breathing. Slowly getting heavier.

  James and Robert's breaths were heavy, exhausted, filled with the weight of men running on empty but refusing to fall.

  Cenilera couldn't move.

  Her father's hollow, bloodshot eyes staring right through her.

  Her siblings' blood-streaked faces, mouths wet with the ruin of what they'd done.

  Her mother's final scream-a raw, piercing sound that had never left her, even years later.

  Baaam-!

  Cenilera jolted, snapping back into reality just in time to see an undead push past Robert knocking him to the ground. The corpse stared, its white glazed, lifeless eyes pierced through the dark.

  It gaze locked onto hers.

  "Cenilera," Robert said, his voice sharp but laced with something deeper-concern. "You need to move. Now."

  She swallowed, trying to force air into her lungs, trying to push past the icy grip of the past that threatened to drown her.

  Robert spun, baton swinging. It connected with a sickening CRACK, sending the undead crashing into the pavement.

  But the horde was endless.

  James and Robert were running out of steam.

  And Cenilera?

  She was dead weight.

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  “No. No more.”

  Something inside her snapped-the paralyzing fear, the echoes of the past, the helplessness.

  It burned away.

  Her hands moved before her mind caught up, fingers wrapping around the scalpel sheathed in her pocket. It was small, useless compared to their weapons, but it was hers.

  And she wasn't going to watch them die.

  With a sharp inhale, she gritted her teeth and stepped forward.

  The air was a suffocating mix of sweat, blood, and rot. Cenilera barely had time to react before the zombie lunged, its decayed body hurling through the air with terrifying speed. The stench of death engulfed her, an unbearable cocktail of rotting flesh and soured blood.

  She didn't think.

  Her arm shot forward, the scalpel gleaming under the dim, flickering lights as it sank deep into the creature's nape.

  But it didn't stop.

  The impact slammed her onto the floor, her skull cracking against the cold, unforgiving tiles.

  Stars exploded in her vision as the weight of the undead bore down on her. The thing snarled, its putrid breath burning against her cheek.

  Cenilera gritted her teeth, shoving an elbow up beneath its chin, barely keeping its snapping jaws away from her throat. Its broken teeth gnashed inches from her skin, hunger turning its dead gaze into something almost sentient. It’s was swollen, most likely caused from the initial impact that killed them.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. She had seconds.

  Her free hand jerked the scalpel out with a sickening squelch and drove it back in-again.

  And again. The thin blade punctured decomposed flesh, sinking into its temple, its throat, its eye socket.

  It wouldn't die.

  The zombie thrashed against her, its decayed fingers clawing at her arm, digging into her skin.

  Her muscles burned, her strength slipping. Her mind screamed at her to fight, to survive, but the weight of the past pressed down on her, blending with the monster above her.

  Not again. Not again.

  Then—

  BAAAM!

  The doors exploded open.

  The shockwave sent the undead reeling back from the sound, just enough for Cenilera to kick it off her. She gasped, rolling away, her vision a blur of movement and muzzle flashes.

  A squadron of guards and nurses stormed into the hallway, their weapons roaring, unloading round after round with deadly precision.

  The undead didn't stand a chance.

  Bodies dropped, one after another, limbs jerking, skulls bursting, the air thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and burnt flesh.

  Then-silence.

  Cenilera lay there, panting, her body trembling with exhaustion. The only sounds left were the ragged breaths of the survivors who stayed unconscious and thus were spared from being bitten. In the distance, the crackling radio chatter from the guards echoed in her head as gibberish.

  Robert let out a shaky breath, running a hand over his sweat-drenched face. His eyes were wide, still running on adrenaline. "Thank God," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice rough with exhaustion. He holstered his weapon, his fingers unsteady.

  James let out a slow exhale, his usual heavy demeanor dampened by the weight of the moment.

  "Better late than never," he murmured, rolling his shoulders as the tension in his muscles began to unwind.

  Cenilera pushed herself up on weak limbs, swallowing down the bile rising in her throat. She had been seconds away from death.

  Again.

  A new presence filled the room, commanding and sharp.

  Commander J. Mark.

  He stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the carnage. His uniform was immaculate despite the chaos, his expression unreadable, but his eyes-**piercing, calculating-**swept over the survivors like a predator assessing its prey.

  Then, his gaze landed on her.

  Cenilera stiffened under his scrutiny, still struggling to ground herself in the present.

  He studied her for a moment, then spoke, his voice smooth yet edged with something unreadable.

  "Well... I suppose I should say

  congratulations. You were all able to hold on until we arrived."

  A voice, calm but edged with authority, cut through the thick air.

  "Rest assured, you're safe now."

  Commander J. Mark's voice was like iron wrapped in silk. He stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards, his presence alone enough to command attention. His uniform was

  immaculate, barely a wrinkle in sight despite the chaos that had unfolded. Everything about him was precise, controlled.

  For a brief moment, the corners of his mouth ticked up in a smile—a calculated gesture meant to reassure, not comfort. But as he continued, his expression hardened once more.

  "Remember, in situations like this, the priority is containment. We isolate the reanimated before securing the area and tending to the wounded. It's safer that way."

  Cenilera forced herself to nod, even as guilt coiled like a vice in her stomach. Her fingers twitched at her sides, still slick with the remnants of whatever had been left on that scalpel. If she hadn't hesitated to fight, to kill, but had made an effort right away, to stand and fight side by side, would things have ended differently?

  "Of course, sir... I just wanted to help."

  Mark studied her for a long moment, his sharp eyes flickering with something almost unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, his gaze softened.

  "I know you did." His voice was quieter now, devoid of reprimand. "And you did help. But next time, follow protocol. That's an order."

  She swallowed hard and nodded again, this time more firmly.

  James, still catching his breath beside her, snorted. "Yeah, yeah, protocol. Pretty sure protocol went out the damn window the second Councilor Albert and the kid vanished leaving these guys behind without a warning."

  Robert shot him a sharp look, but James only shrugged, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. His usual cocky smirk was there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was tired. They all were.

  Mark, to his credit, didn't react to the jab.

  Instead, he exhaled slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. "I don't expect any of you to like protocol. But I do expect you to follow it." His gaze flicked between them, assessing. "Or would you prefer to end up like your friend over there?"

  He gestured toward Sanchez's remains.

  The words were a cold slap against the already frigid air.

  Cenilera's stomach twisted as she turned her head. The mangled corpse barely resembled a person anymore. Flesh stripped away, bones exposed, entrails smeared across the floor. The guards had done what they could to finish off the ones feasting on him, but there wasn't much left of Sanchez to save.

  James' jaw tightened, but for once, he didn't have a snarky reply.

  Mark let the silence settle before continuing, his voice like a blade gliding through the tension.

  "Get cleaned up. You'll all be debriefed in one hour." His gaze lingered on Cenilera for a second longer than the others before he turned sharply on his heel, disappearing into the hallway with his guards in tow.

  The moment he was gone, the weight of exhaustion slammed into Cenilera's bones.

  She wavered slightly, pressing a hand to her temple.

  Robert caught the movement. "You good, Lilith?"

  She hesitated to respond. Was she?

  Her body ached, her hands were shaking, and her mind still teetered between this moment and the past, the echoes of her mother's screams still clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

  But she couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not now.

  She forced a quick breath, then forced a smile.

  "Yeah. Just tired."

  Robert didn't look convinced, but he didn't push.

  As they turned to leave, Cenilera stole one last glance over her shoulder.

  The bodies. The blood. The way the overhead lights flickered against the still-warm carnage.

  She'd survived. Again.