The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the city, carrying with it a bitter chill that gnawed at the skin. The fog had thickened, and with it, the stench of rot and decay lingered in the air like an oppressive cloud. The streets, once bustling with life, were now little more than abandoned alleys and crumbling buildings, each corner hiding memories of a world that no longer existed.
She didn't know how long she'd been running—how long she'd been chasing shadows in this cursed city—but it felt like an eternity. Her legs ached, her breath was ragged, but she couldn't stop. Not when there were always more of them. More of the things that had once been human. More of the monsters that stalked the ruins like wolves. More of the nightmare that had made her into what she was.
The survivor—the man with the crowbar—had begged her for help. His voice still echoed in her ears, desperate, pleading. But she hadn't stopped. She couldn't. Trust was a luxury long dead, buried under the rubble like the last remnants of hope. She'd learned it the hard way—people were just as dangerous as the infected, if not worse.
Still, something about him lingered in her mind. The look in his eyes. The way he'd spoken as though he knew her. As though he remembered something she couldn't.
Subject Zero.
The words churned in her head like poison. A title. A curse. A mystery she couldn't outrun. Was that all she was? A designation in a failed experiment? A shadow born from someone else's mistake?
She gritted her teeth and pushed forward. The fog was thicker now, curling low to the ground, obscuring shapes and sounds. But she could hear them—growling, snarling, gurgling—coming from the ruins ahead.
The old data center.
Its massive structure loomed in the distance like a tombstone from a forgotten age. Once a technological hub, its glass walls were now cracked and hollow, its once-blazing lights reduced to a flicker of static and ember. Smoke billowed faintly from the upper levels, and the building creaked with the weight of its own decay.
She knew why they were here.
Heat. Noise. Maybe even the residual hum of power. Whatever it was, the infected were drawn to it like moths to a dying flame.
She tightened her grip on her sword and stepped toward the entrance, her body moving on instinct. She didn't hesitate—hesitation got you killed. Her footfalls were soft but steady against the broken tile as she entered the atrium. The silence inside was eerie, too complete, as if the world was holding its breath.
And then came the sound.
A low snarl. Wet, gurgling breath.
She spun to her left as the first one lunged from behind a crumbling support beam, its face a torn canvas of ruin, its eyes hollow and wild. Her blade met its neck mid-leap, cleaving through bone and rot in a single motion. The creature collapsed with a thud, but there was no time to rest.
A chorus of snarls followed.
They were waiting in the dark.
Flooding from corridors, crawling from under collapsed debris, pushing through broken walls and shattered glass. A swarm. Dozens. Maybe more.
She clenched her jaw and took her stance, her blade gleaming with blood under the flickering lights. Then she moved.
Steel danced.
She pivoted, slicing through limbs, torsos, skulls. The infected screeched and howled, but she met them with unrelenting fury. Her movements were fluid, rehearsed, perfect. Each strike followed the next in a deadly rhythm. Her sword cut through flesh like lightning through storm clouds. She twisted, ducked, leapt—dodging claws and teeth by inches, always staying one step ahead.
But they kept coming.
Her muscles screamed in protest. Her breaths turned to gasps. Blood—some of it hers, most of it theirs—splattered across her arms and face. Still, she didn't stop. She couldn't.
This was survival. This was her life now.
One of the infected—a massive one, shoulders hunched and muscles bulging—charged her like a beast. She barely ducked beneath its swipe and jammed her blade upward through its chin, driving it through the skull with a grunt of effort. The thing jerked once, then crumpled. Two more replaced it immediately.
A scream tore from her throat—not of fear, but rage.
She fought like a demon. Not because she wanted to. But because she had no choice.
Minutes passed like hours.
When the final creature fell, the silence was deafening. The floor was littered with broken bodies, twisted limbs, and shattered bones. She stood in the center of it all, her sword dripping, her body shaking, her breath ragged and heavy.
But she was still standing.
Barely.
She leaned against the nearest wall, trying to collect herself, trying to remember who she was beneath all of this blood and violence. The word Subject still rang in her mind, but now it felt... different.
Not just a title.
A warning. A prophecy. A truth she hadn't yet uncovered.
The hum of the building—what little was left of its internal systems—flickered like a heartbeat slowing to a stop. Outside, the fog thickened, but the sounds of the infected had faded. For now.
She took one last look at the blood-covered atrium, then straightened, her grip on the sword tightening.
There was more ahead.
There always was.
And then she saw it—partially hidden behind a collapsed pillar and tangled wires, a narrow staircase descending into the lower levels of the facility. Cold air wafted up from the opening, carrying with it a scent she couldn't quite place. Not rot. Not dust.
Something else.
Something was waiting.
Her pulse quickened, but she didn't hesitate.
She stepped toward the stairs, one foot after the other, and began her descent.