The world outside had turned into a nightmare.
Smoke rose from shattered streets, sirens wailed endlessly, and distant screams echoed between broken buildings.
Ryuji's steps were quick, almost frantic, as he navigated the wreckage of what used to be his peaceful neighborhood. His target was simple — his apartment, where his katana, a gift from his grandfather, was kept hidden in a box under his bed.
He clutched the kitchen knife tightly in his right hand, the blade smeared with grime from his earlier desperate encounters. It was a poor weapon, but it had saved his life when a crazed infected woman had lunged at him just minutes ago.
Ryuji's heart was pounding. Not from exhaustion, but from fear — and rage.
When he finally reached his building, he stared at it with disbelief. The once pristine white structure now stood half-collapsed, with shattered windows and bloodstains marking the walls.
Inside, shadows moved — slow, staggering figures. He knew what they were.
"Focus, Ryuji. In and out."
He entered the building carefully, moving up the emergency stairs, each creak of metal sounding like thunder in the tense air. On the second floor, he spotted a man slumped against the wall, twitching. The infection had taken hold of him, but he wasn't fully turned yet.
Ryuji hesitated — this was his first real fight.
The man — or what was left of him — suddenly turned his head with a sickening snap. His eyes were clouded, his mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl.
Without thinking, Ryuji raised the kitchen knife as the creature lunged at him. They struggled, crashing into the cracked walls.
In a desperate motion, Ryuji buried the knife deep into the infected man's temple. The body went limp instantly, sliding to the floor with a sickening thud.
Breathing heavily, Ryuji stumbled back, staring at the corpse.
His hands trembled, not from weakness, but from adrenaline. This was the world now — kill or be killed.
He shook his head and continued. His apartment was on the fourth floor. Every second mattered.
Bursting through his battered front door, he rushed inside, ignoring the ruined mess. He dropped to the floor, reaching under his bed and pulling out an old, dusty wooden box.
Inside, wrapped carefully in cloth, was his katana.
The blade gleamed as he unsheathed it, still sharp, still beautiful — a relic of another time, when wars were fought with honor.
He gripped the sword tightly.
"No more running."
Ryuji stood up, a new resolve burning in his chest. With his katana strapped to his side, he was no longer just a survivor. He would carve his way through this nightmare.
He had a mission — find his parents. Find answers. Survive.
As he stepped back into the ruined hallway, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
The storm was coming, and Ryuji would meet it with steel in his hands.