The Warning

After several tense hours of searching, Victor and Hiroshi finally returned, their steps heavy and their expressions darker than the storm clouds overhead. As they entered the dimly lit room, the faint metallic clinks of the weapons they carried broke the suffocating silence. Yet, the moment Victor dumped their findings onto the table, disappointment was etched into every crease of his face.

“These things won’t last a week,” Victor hissed, his voice sharp with frustration. With a deliberate motion, he began laying out their modest arsenal, each weapon hitting the surface with a dull thud.

A Glock 19 slid across the table, its scratched surface revealing years of wear. Next, a battered Beretta M9, the grip taped together in a makeshift repair. He tossed in an Ithaca 37 shotgun, its barrel dented and the pump action stiff with rust. A pair of lightweight but unimpressive Smith & Wesson Model 60 revolvers followed, their muzzles already dull from neglect.

Victor then set down a set of daggers—karambits and push knives, their once gleaming blades now dulled by time. A rusty machete completed the collection, its edge jagged and uneven, more useful for intimidation than actual combat. Finally, there was a crossbow, ancient and creaking, accompanied by only a handful of mismatched bolts.

Hiroshi grimaced but said nothing, his hand lingering over the crossbow as if he hoped it might miraculously transform into something deadlier. Victor, however, was less restrained, running a hand through his unkempt hair as he glared at the pitiful assortment.

“This isn’t just disappointing,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a low growl. “It’s suicide. What are we supposed to do with this? Threaten them with antique collectibles?” He slammed a fist on the table, causing the Glock to wobble precariously.

Hiroshi finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with fatigue. “It’s all we could find. Every armory in the sector’s been raided, and anything decent was taken long before we got there. If we’re going to survive, we’ll have to make these work.”

Victor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at the weapons as though willing them to become something better. His jaw tightened.

“Fine,” he said at last, though the word came out more as a growl. “But these won’t be enough for long. We need better plans or we'll be staying here until I say so."

He glanced toward the adjoining room just in time to see Azumi emerging, her hair slightly disheveled, while Hiroshi knelt by the couch to check on Adelina, who was fast asleep, her breathing soft and steady.

“Well,” Azumi said, approaching the table and poking one of the dull daggers with her finger. “Let’s just hope zombies can die from tetanus.”

“Ha ha,” Victor grimaced, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’d never let you handle this garbage. You’d probably end up cutting yourself.”

“Ahh, you underestimate me so much,” she teased, her lips curving into a playful pout.

“No,” Victor shot back almost too quickly, his tone firm. “I just can’t let you get hurt.” He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some cleaning to do.”

Before Azumi could respond, Victor leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, a gesture so instinctive and genuine that it made her heart clench. Without another word, he turned and began sorting through his collection of cleaning tools—oils, brushes, and cloths. Every movement was precise, almost ritualistic, a reflection of his skill as a hunter and his deep understanding of weapons.

Azumi stood still, watching him work, a thin smile forming on her lips as warmth filled her chest. It was in these small acts, his unspoken care, that she realized just how deeply he loved her. But the moment of joy was fleeting, replaced by the heavy weight of her conscience.

“It’s for his safety, Azumi,” she reminded herself silently. “It’s for everyone’s safety.”

With a heavy sigh, she turned and walked toward the garden, seeking solace among the barricades they had hastily constructed. Leaning against the uneven wood, she gazed out at the ruined city below. Once bustling with life, it now stretched before her as a sprawling graveyard of shattered windows, collapsed buildings, and streets littered with abandoned cars and rotting garbage. A hollow emptiness hung in the air, as if the city itself mourned its lost humanity.

"I'll do anything to help bring back humans," Azumi muttered softly to herself. She was about to head back inside when a sudden glint of light hit her eyes, sharp enough to pull her attention.

She paused, squinting into the desolate landscape below. Her eyes scanned the area, searching for the source of the reflection. At first, it was hard to pinpoint, but then she caught movement in the shadows of an alley.

Azumi blinked repeatedly, trying to focus, and then she saw it—no, saw her. A figure. Someone was deliberately flashing the light in her direction, as if to catch her attention. She instinctively leaned forward against the barricade, straining her eyes, even though she knew it wouldn’t help.

The figure—a woman—noticed she had succeeded in capturing Azumi’s attention. The light disappeared, replaced by movement. A moment later, the woman raised something—a banner or a sheet of some kind. Azumi squinted harder.

The words on the banner hit her like a punch to the gut. "THEY'RE COMING! LEAVE ASAP!"

Azumi gasped audibly, her hand flying t

o her mouth. Her heartbeat quickened as the urgency of the message sank in.