The survivors charged.
It wasn't brave.
It wasn't coordinated.
It was desperate.
Jin watched them sprint across the room — bodies thin, knuckles bruised, eyes sunken with exhaustion.
They swung whatever they could find: mop handles, splintered chair legs, rusty IV poles.
Weapons made of fear.
Jin sidestepped a swing, barely moving.
The staff twisted in his hands, and with the faintest flick — he hooked it behind the attacker's knee and sent them crashing to the floor.
The man groaned, clutching his leg.
Jin didn't look down.
He turned to the next one.
They came at him, swinging a cracked metal tray like a shield.
Jin ducked, spun low, and swept their legs out from under them with the staff.
Clatter.
Another one down.
He hadn't even hit them hard.
They just collapsed.
Like their bodies couldn't handle the fight — like their minds had given up first.
Seul moved like a shadow.
