survival rules

The darkness was absolute.

Jiwoo exhaled slowly, steadying himself as he remained still in the oppressive silence. The single overhead light had flickered, sputtered, then died, plunging his apartment into shadows. The only illumination came from the distant fires outside, their flickering glow casting jagged shapes against his walls. The power had lasted longer than expected, but he had known this moment would come. Seoul was dying, and now his apartment was just another lifeless husk in its collapse.

He let the moment pass, the weight of it pressing against his chest. Then, he moved.

The first priority was light. He rummaged through his backpack, fingers curling around the flashlight he had grabbed earlier. When he clicked it on, a pale beam cut through the darkness. He swept it across the room, ensuring nothing had changed, nothing had moved. The barricade at his front door still held, though the chair wedged beneath the handle looked weaker than before. He'd need to reinforce it.

He checked his phone. Still no signal. The battery was draining faster than he liked, but he couldn't risk wasting it on idle use. He switched it to airplane mode and set it aside. The silence from the outside world was unnerving. No notifications, no news, no calls. Just the distant howling of something inhuman beneath the city's dying breath.

Jiwoo moved quickly, yanking open the drawers in his kitchen. He found a pack of candles, remnants from an old power outage years ago. He set three on the table and lit them, watching as their small flames wavered, casting long shadows along the walls. It was dangerous to have them burning for too long, but for now, they provided warmth against the growing void of darkness.

Reinforcement. That was next.

His apartment was small—one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. It didn't offer many defensive advantages, but he could make it work. He grabbed his couch and dragged it closer to the door, angling it so the weight pressed against the barricade. His muscles strained, his breath came in sharp exhales, but he didn't stop. When the couch was in place, he wedged the chair back beneath the door handle, ensuring the frame would hold against any sudden force.

He turned his attention to the windows. He was on the eighth floor, which meant nothing should be able to reach him from the outside. But doubt crept in like an insidious whisper, telling him that height wouldn't be enough to keep him safe. He pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the glow of the fires and the distant horrors unfolding below.

The vents. Another potential weak point. He had read once that rats could squeeze through impossibly small spaces, and if the infected operated with possible grotesque efficiency, he wasn't going to take any chances. He grabbed some broken wood and nails sealing the vents shut. It wouldn't hold forever, but it might buy him time.

With his defenses reinforced, he took stock of his supplies. He had food, though not enough for comfort. Canned goods, bottled water, protein bars. It would last him a week if he rationed carefully. Longer if he stretched it, but the idea of starving in a locked apartment was a slow horror he didn't want to consider. He'd need more. Eventually.

He also had weapons he got from the police station.

A sound. Close.

His fingers tightened around the flashlight as he turned toward the door, his pulse hammering in his throat. Something moved in the hallway. Not the erratic shuffling of the infected, but something slower. Measured.

A survivor?

Jiwoo pressed himself against the wall, waiting. The sound of quiet breathing, the creak of a floorboard. Then, a knock. Three soft raps against his door.

He didn't respond. He barely breathed.

The knocking came again, this time more insistent. A voice followed, hushed but urgent. "Hey—if you're in there, I need help."

Jiwoo closed his eyes. A test. Maybe genuine, maybe a trap. He had no way of knowing. He stayed silent, willing himself to become nothing.

Seconds passed. Then, the person outside exhaled sharply. "Shit. Okay."

Footsteps retreated down the hall, swallowed by the silence. Jiwoo remained still for a long moment before allowing himself to breathe again.

Too risky. He couldn't trust anyone. Not yet.

The next few hours stretched into a slow, suffocating crawl. He checked his defenses again and again, reinforcing the barricade, ensuring the vents remained sealed, adjusting the placement of his supplies. When exhaustion finally settled into his limbs, he allowed himself to sit on the floor, his back against the barricaded door.

Then, another sound. A distant scream—short, choked off. Followed by a low growl. Not human. Not natural.

Jiwoo clenched his fists. It was only a matter of time before the infected reached his floor. If they hadn't already.

He reached beneath his bed and pulled out the katana. The weight of it was familiar, a remnant of his childhood training. His father had taught him well, but he had never used it for anything beyond practice. The thought of cutting through flesh, through bone—it made his stomach turn.

But hesitation meant death.

Jiwoo tightened his grip on the hilt. He had survived the first night. That was something. But the night wasn't over yet. And outside, in the depths of the dying city, something was still watching.

Waiting.

The fire escape was still an option. If things became unbearable, if he had no choice, he could use it to escape. But to where? The streets were worse. The hallways were dangerous. For now, this apartment was his best chance.

He glanced at the notepad he had set on the table earlier. His list remained unchanged:

Priority 1: Reinforce the apartment.

Barricade the front door more effectively. ✅

Check for weak points (windows, vents). ✅

Use furniture to create a secondary barrier. ✅

Priority 2: Expand supplies.

Locate nearby convenience stores. ❌

Scout for alternative sources of food/water. ❌

Weapons. More weapons. ❌

Priority 3: Find survivors (carefully).

Avoid large groups. ✅

Only approach if necessary. ✅

Trust no one. ✅

He tapped the end of the pen against the paper. The second priority was next. He wouldn't last long on what little he had. But that meant leaving, stepping into the unknown, risking everything.

Not yet. Not tonight.

He adjusted his grip on the katana, resting it across his lap. His mind replayed everything—the neighbor's screams, the thing in the hallway, the knocking at his door. Each moment sharpened his resolve. If this was only the beginning, he had to be ready for whatever came next.

Outside, the wind howled through the skeletal remains of the city. The candles flickered, their tiny flames fighting against the darkness.

Jiwoo stayed awake. He had no choice.

The night was long, and the city was still dying.

But he wasn't dead yet.