Hugo stared out the window for a long moment, his grip tightening on the frame. His heart was still pounding, but now it wasn’t just from the explosion—it was from the voice he had heard below. Another survivor.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Closing the window, he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. That should’ve been good news, but instead, his stomach twisted into knots. People were unpredictable. He had no idea what kind of man lived in that apartment below him, only that he had survived this long. That alone meant something.

  What if he was aggressive? Hugo had made it this far, only to be taken out by a paranoid neighbor? That would be a hell of a way to go.

  He glanced over at Salem, who was now curled up on the couch, completely unfazed. "Guess I’m waiting until morning," Hugo muttered. There was no point in pushing his luck now. He needed to approach this carefully.

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined the worst. A crazed old man, ready to put an end to anyone who came near him. A bitter recluse who saw everyone as a threat. It was too much to process.

  Morning arrived too soon, but Hugo had already made his decision. He was going to talk to the neighbor.

  After going through his routine, he geared up, making sure he had his knife at his side—not to use it, just in case things went south. Then, he made his way downstairs.

  Standing in front of Apartment 201, Hugo took a deep breath and knocked.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, this time a little louder. "Hey, I know you’re in there. I heard you last night. I just want to talk."

  Silence.

  Hugo shifted uncomfortably. Maybe the guy really wasn’t interested in conversation, but it was worth trying. "Look, I’m not looking for trouble. Just figured it’d be good to know each other. We’re the only two people left here."

  A gruff voice finally came from inside. "Fuck off."

  Hugo blinked. Well, that was direct.

  He sighed, running a hand down his face. "Listen, man, I get it. You don’t trust people. I don’t either. But we’re stuck here. We don’t have to be friends, but we should at least—"

  A deafening bang cut him off.

  Pain exploded in his chest before he even registered what had happened. The impact knocked him backward, and for a split second, he felt weightless before crashing onto the floor. His vision blurred, his breath came in ragged gasps, and warmth spread across his torso.

  His hand shakily reached for the wound. Blood. A lot of it.

  The door remained shut. No hesitation. No remorse.

  Hugo choked on his own breath, his body growing colder by the second.

  The last thing he saw was the ceiling, the cracks running through it, before everything went dark.

  Hugo jolted awake, gasping for breath, his hands clutching at his chest in pure panic. He scrambled upright, his heart hammering as he realized where he was.

  His apartment. His couch. Salem stretched lazily beside him, oblivious to the sheer horror Hugo had just relived.

  "That bastard!" Hugo shouted, his voice raw with anger. "He shot me!"

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  Adrenaline surged through him as he swung his legs off the couch, rage boiling over. He wasn’t going to let this slide.

  Storming out of his apartment, he took the stairs two at a time, his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t care about being careful anymore. He was done playing nice.

  He reached Apartment 201 and pounded on the door. "Hey, old man! Open up! You wanna shoot me again? Come on, do it to my face this time!"

  Silence.

  Hugo’s patience snapped. "You think you’re the only one left who matters?! We could help each other, but no—you just sit in there and shoot at people like a damn coward!"

  Another deafening bang echoed through the hall.

  Pain tore through his body. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. Blood pooled around him, the world spinning violently out of focus.

  As darkness crept in once more, his last thought was bitter and furious.

  That old bastard shot him again.

  Hugo woke with a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing instinctively. The now-familiar sensation of being yanked back from the brink of death left him shaking, disoriented, and filled with frustration.

  He groaned, pressing his hands against his face. "Goddamn it."

  His muscles still burned with phantom pain, his mind racing. Going in hot was clearly the wrong move. He had let his anger get the better of him, and he had paid for it.

  He pushed himself up, exhaling slowly, forcing himself to think. If he was going to deal with the neighbor, he needed to be smart about it. Rushing in and yelling wasn’t going to work.

  From now on, he wouldn’t stand in front of that door. He had to assume the old man would shoot first and not ask questions later. Hugo rubbed his temples, thinking.

  What was the right approach?

  He needed information. If he couldn’t talk to the guy directly, maybe he could observe him, learn his habits. Did he ever leave his apartment? Was there another way to communicate?

  Hugo sat back on the couch, Salem hopping onto his lap, tail flicking. The cat, at least, didn’t seem concerned about their grumpy neighbor.

  "Alright, old man," Hugo muttered, stroking Salem’s fur absentmindedly. "Let’s see what makes you tick."

  This wasn’t over. But next time, he’d be ready.

  Hugo took a deep breath and went downstairs for the third time, but this time, he had a plan. He knocked on the door and immediately stepped to the side, pressing himself against the wall next to the frame, out of the line of fire.

  "My name is Hugo," he called out calmly. "I live upstairs. I’ve got a cat named Salem. I just want to talk."

  Silence.

  "If you don’t want to talk, I get it," Hugo continued. "But if you need food or water, I’m leaving some here. No strings attached. Just in case."

  Carefully, he set down a water bottle and a small pack of food in front of the door. He glanced at it for a moment, then took a step back.

  "I’ll check back tomorrow," he added. "No pressure. Take care."

  With that, he turned and walked away, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. He had done what he could for now.

  Back in his apartment, he settled into his usual routine, checking the barricades, maintaining his supplies, and keeping an eye on the outside world.

  Feeling emboldened, Hugo decided to scout the first floor. As soon as he stepped onto the landing, he froze.

  A massive cluster of zombies turned toward him, their vacant eyes locking onto their next meal.

  They screamed and charged.

  Hugo barely had time to react before they were upon him. He swung his bat wildly, the weapon cracking against skulls, but it wasn’t enough. Hands clawed at him, yanking at his arms and legs as he kicked out desperately, sending a few of them stumbling back.

  He spun and bolted toward the stairwell, shoving a zombie aside as he ran. He reached the door, slammed it shut, and threw his weight against it, but the horde was too strong. The door burst open as the first zombie barreled through.

  With a roar, Hugo swung his bat straight into its head, caving it in. The body collapsed, blocking the entrance for a brief second, but the others shoved past it, surging forward.

  Panting, Hugo turned and ran toward Apartment 201, pounding on the door. "Let me in! Please! They’re right behind me!"

  No response.

  His eyes flicked downward.

  The food and water were gone.

  Then the horde was on him.

  They tore into him, pulling him down, teeth sinking into his flesh. The pain was indescribable. He fought, but there were too many, the sheer weight of them crushing him to the cold floor. Agonized screams filled the air, then silence.

  Hugo woke up for the fourth time that day, gasping, his body drenched in sweat. That had been far worse than getting shot. The sensation of being torn apart still lingered in his mind, the memory making his stomach churn.

  Getting shot? That was quick. Getting eaten alive? That was a nightmare.

  At least something good had come of it—the old man had taken the food and water. That meant some part of him was willing to accept help, even if he refused to admit it.

  With a groan, Hugo sat up, rubbing his face. He had to do it all over again. Sighing, he grabbed a bottle of water and some food, making his way downstairs. This time, he would introduce himself properly.

  He knocked on the door and quickly stepped to the side, out of the line of fire. Taking a deep breath, he spoke, keeping his voice steady and calm.

  "Hey, I don’t know if you can hear me, but my name is Hugo. I live upstairs. Used to be a cook before all this mess started. I’ve been surviving up there, clearing the building out little by little. I have supplies, food, and water, but I know those things won’t last forever."

  He hesitated for a second before continuing. "I have a cat too. His name’s Salem. Not much of a talker, but he’s good company. Figured I’d mention him since he’s the only other living thing I’ve got with me."

  Hugo exhaled slowly. "I don’t know what kind of man you are, and I’m not asking you to be my friend. But we’re both here, in the same building, and that means we’ve got to look out for each other. Or at the very least, not shoot each other."

  He set the bottle of water and food down in front of the door. "I’m leaving this here. No strings attached. If you don’t want it, fine. If you do, that’s fine too. I’ll check back tomorrow."

  He lingered for a moment, but as expected, there was no response. That was okay. He wasn’t expecting one.

  As he turned to head back upstairs, his footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, the silence pressing down on him. Just as he reached the first step, he heard it—a faint creak of hinges.

  His body went rigid.

  For the first time, the neighbor opened his door.

  Hugo didn’t dare turn around too quickly. He knew better than to startle a man who had already shot him twice. Instead, he slowly turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse. The door was only open a crack, the dim light from within casting a sliver of illumination into the darkened hallway.

  A shadow moved behind the door, barely visible. The old man was watching him.

  Hugo swallowed hard, keeping his hands relaxed at his sides. "I’ll be back tomorrow," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "Take care."

  The door remained open for a few more seconds before it shut again, the locks clicking into place.

  Hugo let out a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm as he made his way back up the stairs. His heart pounded against his ribs, not from fear, but from something else—progress.

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start.