A smile—something so simple to understand, yet so profoundly powerful. A polite smile to a stranger can elicit kindness, even when the other person is in a foul mood. Why is that?

  For women, a smile can exude charm. Even those who aren’t conventionally beautiful can become captivating when they smile. For men, a smile can be a tool—a way to break the ice, to disarm, to manipulate.

  At exactly nine o’clock, Vincent checked his watch once more and stepped out of the bathroom, a faint smile playing on his lips, as if he were in high spirits.

  *Knock, knock, knock!*

  Vincent approached the lounge door and rapped on it firmly. He wasn’t Manuela. If he barged in unannounced, Andrew might just shoot him on the spot.

  Everyone in the living room watched Vincent intently. His smile was disarming, but it was also deceptive. Yet, it worked. He had fooled them all. What kind of mindset allowed Vincent to face Andrew with a smile, especially after what had happened to Manuela?

  From inside the lounge came the sound of something heavy hitting the floor—perhaps Andrew had stumbled while getting out of bed. Then, the door creaked open. Andrew stood there, gun in hand, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

  “What do you want?” Andrew growled, grabbing Vincent by the collar and yanking him closer until their faces were inches apart. “You better have a damn good reason for bothering me, or I’ll break your legs,” he snarled. The drugs had taken hold, and in this state, Andrew was unpredictable—capable of anything, even murder.

  “Uh…” Vincent raised his hands in a placating gesture, his smile turning ingratiating. “Andrew, relax, relax. I know where we can find more guns. Easy to get.”

  “Really?” Andrew blinked hard, his vision blurred from the drugs. He wasn’t completely out of it, but his paranoia as a seasoned criminal kept him on edge.

  “Really… Can we talk inside?” Vincent sidestepped toward the lounge, his hands still raised in a gesture of harmlessness. His eyes never left Andrew’s, and his smile remained humble, perfectly playing the part of a desperate ally.

  Vincent’s performance was flawless. His deceptive smile had worked its magic, and Andrew released his grip, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head before closing the lounge door behind them.

  Outside, the guttural growls of zombies echoed through the streets, a constant reminder of the horrors lurking just beyond the walls. The tension in the living room thickened the moment the lounge door clicked shut.

  Old Mike and Laura exchanged uneasy glances. If Vincent had truly allied himself with Andrew, the rest of them were in for a world of trouble—perhaps even enslavement.

  “Oh, God…” Jack muttered under his breath, making a quick sign of the cross before turning to Manuela, who sat slumped against the wall. “What’s going on with him?”

  Manuela, who had been speaking quietly with Vincent earlier, took a drag from her cigarette and ran a hand through her disheveled hair. Her eyes were hollow, her voice tinged with disappointment. “I don’t know.”

  Christine, sitting across from Old Mike and Laura, suddenly stood up. Her face pale, she walked over to Manuela and sat down beside her, holding out two fingers. “Can I have a drag?” she asked, her eyes filled with sorrow. She knew her nightmare wasn’t over—it was only a matter of time before it returned. Manuela couldn’t protect her forever.

  Without a word, Manuela handed over the cigarette she’d been smoking and lit another for herself. In the United Americas, the legal age for smoking was eighteen, and drinking was twenty-one. Letting a sixteen-year-old high schooler smoke was technically illegal, but in this broken world, who cared about laws anymore?

  Laura, watching from a distance, opened her mouth to say something but ultimately stayed silent. Christine, clearly new to smoking, coughed a few times before Manuela gently took the cigarette back, patting her on the back. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I’m fine,” Christine insisted, grabbing the cigarette back and taking another drag. Manuela didn’t stop her. For Christine, there was no future to protect—only the looming threats of zombies and Andrew. If smoking brought her even a sliver of comfort, who was Manuela to deny her that?

  In the corner of the second floor of the “Dream House” clothing store, two women sat against the wall, shrouded in smoke and despair. One, a woman worn down by constant disappointment; the other, a girl drowning in sorrow for a tomorrow she couldn’t see.

  From the lounge, faint noises could be heard, followed by an eerie silence. No one knew what was happening inside. Perhaps the two men were quietly discussing plans.

  Inside the lounge, the window was tightly shut to keep out the stench of the outside world. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and sex. The small room was sparsely furnished—a bed, a nightstand, and a TV. The floor was littered with food wrappers, used tissues, and condoms, a testament to the chaos within.

  The bed creaked softly, the sound too faint to reach the living room.

  At first, there were muffled grunts and wet, squelching noises. But soon, the first sound ceased, and the second followed.

  *Drip. Drip.*

  Bright red liquid dripped from the edge of the bed, splattering onto the floor. More blood followed, pooling and spreading, forming a crimson puddle that grew larger with each passing second.

  The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating.

  “Hah…” Vincent exhaled, sitting atop Andrew’s lifeless body. Below him, Andrew lay frozen in a final, desperate struggle, his eyes wide with terror, devoid of life.

  A deep, eight-centimeter gash stretched across Andrew’s neck, severing a quarter of it, including the carotid artery. Blood gushed forth, unrelenting. His chest was a gruesome mosaic of stab wounds, each two centimeters wide and impossibly deep. His organs were shredded, his tattered shirt soaked through with blood. Embedded in his left chest was a scalpel, its fifteen-centimeter blade buried to the hilt.

  Andrew’s right hand, dangling off the bed, bore a stab wound that had pierced clean through. On the floor beside the bed lay a handgun.

  Vincent’s face, clothes, and even his mouth were spattered with blood. His expression was calm as he removed his left hand from Andrew’s mouth and spat out a mouthful of blood. Wiping his face, he yanked the scalpel free, sending another spurt of blood arcing into the air.

  Climbing off the bed, Vincent staggered slightly before steadying himself. The intense exertion had left him momentarily weak. He bent down, picked up the handgun, ejected the magazine to check it, then slid it back in and tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants.

  Scalpel in hand, drenched in Andrew’s blood, Vincent sniffed the air and walked toward the door.

  Vincent had killed Andrew—a result no one had anticipated. While part of his motivation stemmed from pity for Christine and the anger it stirred within him, the primary reason was far more pragmatic. Andrew was a liability—selfish, dangerous, and willing to sacrifice anyone to save himself. Vincent couldn’t leave this place anytime soon, and if he didn’t eliminate Andrew now, he’d have to play along with the man’s whims. But Andrew had given Vincent the perfect opportunity, and he had taken it.

  There was another reason, one Vincent was reluctant to admit, even to himself. Perhaps it was the true driving force behind his brutal, bloody act.

  In the living room, the atmosphere was heavy. No one spoke. Christine was on her second cigarette.

  *Click.*

  The lounge door opened slowly, revealing a blood-soaked man standing in the doorway. Vincent’s calm eyes scanned the room as he held the bloodied scalpel, his presence both terrifying and inexplicably reassuring.