In the heart of a high-security government lab, scientists worked with meticulous precision, their movements dictated by years of research and sleepless nights. The air was thick with controlled urgency. At the center of it all, Professor Lee and Dr. Seo handled a vial of an experimental viral serum—one that promised breakthroughs in biological research.
Dr. Seo steadied the vial, sweat glistening on his brow. "Careful," he murmured.
Professor Lee gave a silent nod, guiding the test tube into the containment module. But then—a tremor, a slip, a moment of miscalculation.
Glass shattered.
For a heartbeat, silence gripped the lab. Then the containment system erupted in blaring alarms. Scientists scrambled for protocols, but it was too late. The virus was airborne.
Minutes later, the first symptoms surfaced—blood trickling from noses, violent tremors overtaking limbs. A woman staggered, eyes hemorrhaging red. A strangled scream built into a cacophony as bodies convulsed and collapsed. Security alarms shrieked through the facility.
And then came the worst part.
They moved.
Not the sluggish, shambling dead of cinema, but something worse—twitching, jerking, then launching forward with inhuman speed. Strength magnified beyond human limits, they tore through flesh and bone. Panic ignited as scientists fled, but the virus had no patience for slow contagion. It spread in seconds—through bites, scratches, even the very air.
The last image captured by security cameras was a researcher pounding on the sealed lab doors, her face a grotesque mask of infection before the feed cut to black.
The virus was free.
---
Seoul. A city of 9.7 million. Now teetering on the edge of collapse.
Min Jiwoo, fresh out of military service, clutched the strap of his duffel bag as he swayed with the motion of a crowded bus. Exhaustion seeped into his bones.
Home. He was finally going home.
The neon glow of the city lights pulsed outside, but something was off. A strange unease had settled over the passengers. They whispered in hushed voices, eyes locked onto their phone screens.
Emergency alerts flashed in red text:
"Stay indoors. Avoid contact with infected individuals. Await further instructions."
The bus lurched to a halt. The driver glanced back, nervous. "End of the line," he muttered.
Jiwoo stepped off into the cool night air. Smoke curled in the distance, rising toward the heavens. A faint, inhuman scream cut through the city noise.
Something was wrong.
His apartment stood just as he had left it—a relic of normalcy in a world unraveling. He dropped his bag by the door, gaze lingering on the ornate katana resting near the window. A keepsake from his late parents, both revered kendo instructors. Beside it, a mural of a Japanese dragon watched in silent vigilance.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair.
Then sleep claimed him.
---
Sirens. Distant but growing closer.
Jiwoo's eyes snapped open.
A guttural howl followed—a sound that didn't belong in the world he knew.
Heart pounding, he rushed to the window. The city was burning.
Flames swallowed buildings, licking hungrily at the sky. In the streets below, people ran—some clutching their wounds, others pursued by figures moving with unnatural speed.
His phone vibrated. Another emergency alert:
"The virus has reached critical levels. Infected individuals exhibit heightened aggression and speed. Do not leave your home."
The television flickered on, showing news anchor Na Young-mi. She maintained a professional facade, but fear cracked through the mask.
"The government urges all citizens to remain indoors. The infected show advanced motor skills and increased strength. Do not engage. If bitten, symptoms manifest within minutes. Quarantine is no longer an option."
Then the screen went black.
Jiwoo clenched his fists. The city was collapsing in real time.
His kitchen yielded little—canned beans, instant ramen, a single bottle of water. Not enough.
He had to move.
Stripping off his loungewear, he pulled on jeans and a jacket. His fingers hovered over the katana.
Could he use it? Against something that had once been human?
No choice.
He strapped the blade to his back, slung a makeshift pack over his shoulder, and sketched a crude map in his head:
Convenience store. Police station. Weapons. Survival.
He unbolted the door.
The hallway was still. Smoke curled through shattered windows. Step by step, he crept forward.
At the stairwell, something shifted.
A lone infected stood near the entrance, its body trembling with erratic spasms.
Jiwoo pressed against the wall. Waited. An hour. Motionless.
Then the creature shambled away.
He seized the moment.
---
The convenience store was ransacked but not empty. Blood smeared the floor. Shelves lay overturned.
Jiwoo moved quickly, stuffing food and medicine into his bag.
Then—a noise.
He spun, katana raised.
A single infected stood in the doorway, eyes wild, body drenched in gore.
"Shit," Jiwoo whispered.
It lunged.
Instinct took over.
He sidestepped, blade flashing in the dim light. A single clean stroke. The infected's head rolled to the floor, its body crumpling beside it.
Breath steadying, Jiwoo wiped the blade against his jeans.
"I need to get out of here," he muttered.
More would come.
---
Reaching the police station it was worse.
They were more infected.
Blood. But no Bodies. The infected.
Jiwoo crouched behind a wrecked patrol car.
Too many.
But he needed weapons. Ammo. A silencer even. If he wanted to survive the night, he had to risk it.
Smoke cloaked his approach. Step by step, he edged closer.
Inside, corpses lined the halls. The armory—locked.
Jiwoo pulled out a lockpick, he took from the convenience store.
Click.
The door swung open.
Guns. Ammunition. Kevlar. He grabbed what he could.
Then—
A growl.
One infected. Then three. Then more.
Jiwoo bolted. A clawed hand missed him by inches. He sprinted through the station, bullets rattling in his pack.
RUN!
He barely made it out.
---
Home.
Jiwoo slammed the door shut. Bolted it. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He lay on the floor tired, gulping for air.
He had survived.
For now.
But the city was lost.
And the real horror had only just begun.