Morning came, but the sun didn't.
A pale, sickly light crept over Tokyo, revealing streets abandoned overnight. Storefronts were shattered. Cars sat abandoned, some with doors still swinging open. Blood painted the sidewalks in chaotic streaks. Tokyo, the city that never slept, now looked like a graveyard.
Ryuji rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
He tried calling again—no signal.
The power was flickering. The network was unstable. Still, he kept trying, dialing his mother's number in Osaka. Over and over.
"Come on… pick up, Mom…" he whispered, voice trembling.
Nothing but silence.
His father. His sister. His friends. Every call failed. Panic twisted inside him, but he forced himself to breathe. He had to get to Osaka—find his family, protect them. But first, he needed his weapon. His real weapon.
His katana—a family heirloom, kept safely in his apartment.
It was stupid, maybe. What could a sword do against a virus? Against madness? But right now, anything that gave him a fighting chance was better than bare hands.
Ryuji clutched his backpack tighter and started weaving through the debris-strewn streets, back toward his apartment complex.
The elevator in his building was dead. He climbed the stairs, heart hammering against his ribs. Every floor smelled worse—like rot, metal, and something else he couldn't name. A door on the fifth floor was splintered, dark red handprints smeared across it.
He tried not to look.
Focus. Katana. Get out.
His apartment was on the seventh floor. Almost there.
As he reached his door, he heard it: a low, guttural noise from the hallway. Ryuji froze.
A figure shambled into view—once a man, now a slack-jawed monster with empty, clouded eyes. Blood dripped from its chin.
It smelled him.
It charged.
Ryuji fumbled for his keys but realized—no time. He shouldered the door hard, the wood giving way under his desperate weight. He stumbled into the darkness of his apartment, slamming the door behind him.
No katana yet.
Kitchen.
He sprinted into the narrow kitchen, ripped open a drawer, and yanked out the largest knife he could find—a heavy, chipped kitchen knife, still wet from yesterday's unwashed dishes. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't art.
But it would cut.
The door behind him shook under a pounding fist.
Then—crack—the infected burst through, stumbling into the living room.
Ryuji's chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide. But something deeper, something older inside him whispered—fight.
The infected lunged.
Ryuji sidestepped clumsily, years of kendo practice flashing back to him. He wasn't holding a shinai anymore. This was real. This was deadly.
The thing turned, snarling, yellow teeth snapping at him.
He gritted his teeth and charged forward.
Slash!
The kitchen knife cut through its forearm. Not cleanly—it stuck in the bone, tearing flesh. The infected screamed, a sound that barely sounded human.
Ryuji yanked the knife free.
The creature staggered—and Ryuji didn't hesitate.
One, two, three fast strikes—throat, chest, temple.
Finally, it collapsed at his feet.
Ryuji staggered back, gasping for air, the knife trembling in his hand. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Blood—its blood—spattered across his clothes and face.
He looked down at the shaking, lifeless body.
Then at the knife in his hand.
This wasn't a sparring match.
This wasn't practice.
This was survival.
And it was only the beginning.
Next Time: The Blade in the Box