Vincent, a mixed-race individual of Chinese and American descent, began his introduction with a calm demeanor. "I'm Vincent," he stated, pausing briefly before continuing. "I'm 27 years old. My mother is a translator in the diplomatic service, and my father is a surgeon. I am fluent in seven languages: Chinese, English, German, Korean, French, Russian, and Thai. Four years ago, I graduated from Harvard Medical School and subsequently spent two years participating in research projects at two federal laboratories in the Americas, earning dual master's degrees in biopharmaceuticals and clinical surgery. Two years ago, I moved to New York for work. Before the apocalypse, I worked as an executive assistant at the New York headquarters of Greenpoint Biopharmaceuticals during the day, and by night, I was an underground doctor, providing medical services to the black market, specializing in treating severe trauma patients. Over two years, I performed 57 surgeries without a single failure."

  "About a year and a half ago, I bought a gun and practiced shooting, just in case, given my involvement with the underworld. However, my shooting skills are only average—not outstanding, but not terrible either."

  "Oh, and I'm quite skilled with a scalpel—it can double as a throwing knife!"

  "Also, I remain exceptionally calm under pressure. A steady hand is essential for surgery, and I consider this one of my strengths," Vincent concluded with a relaxed smile, leaning back in his chair.

  He shared a great deal, revealing aspects of his life that no one else knew. His intention was clear: to demonstrate his unique capabilities. In the context of the apocalypse, the value of a skilled doctor is immeasurable. After all, being bitten by a zombie doesn't necessarily mean death—quickly excising the infected tissue can prevent the spread of the virus. Vincent's underlying message was unmistakable: *I am the most capable person here, and you should follow my lead.*

  The group fell silent after Vincent's introduction, unsure how to respond. His resume was undeniably impressive, and in the apocalypse, there was no room for exaggeration—overstating one's abilities would be suicidal. However, Mannie, who had lived next door to Vincent for two years, cast a skeptical glance his way. She knew Vincent's lifestyle had been far from lavish—he wore the same leather jacket for two years without replacing it, which didn't align with the image of a high-ranking executive assistant at a biopharmaceutical company.

  "Where did all your money go?" Mannie whispered into Vincent's ear, her voice low enough that only he could hear. In the pre-apocalypse world, asking a man about his finances might have been taboo, but now, money was worthless. If Vincent wasn't lying, he should have been wealthy, yet Mannie had never seen any evidence of it.

  "Spent it," Vincent replied curtly, turning slightly to face Mannie before quickly shifting his attention back to the group. "Let's focus on planning our next steps. The sooner we leave this place, the better."

  "You've already thought this through, haven't you? Go ahead, share your plan," Old Mike said, his tone suggesting he had already pieced together Vincent's intentions.

  "Alright, here's the plan," Vincent began without hesitation. "Leaving New York won't be easy, so our priority is securing enough weapons. When we first met, you were trying to raid a gun store but failed due to the overwhelming number of zombies. This time, we'll go back to that same store. Here's how we'll do it..."

  Vincent outlined his plan succinctly, and Old Mike nodded along, though he cautioned, "It's risky. We're running low on fuel."

  "The risk is worth it. Without guns, we won't make it out of New York—a city with at least 15 million zombies. Besides, you'll be driving, and I trust your skills," Vincent replied. His estimate of 15 million zombies was based on New York's population of nearly 20 million in 2025, making it the third most populous city in the world after Tokyo and Mexico City. With a 70% infection rate at the onset of the apocalypse, and the chaos that followed, the number of zombies had likely increased significantly. Fifteen million was a conservative estimate.

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  With the plan settled, Vincent suggested they rest at the Dream House clothing store for the day and begin their mission at dawn. Zombies, having just emerged from their nocturnal state of inactivity, would be slower to react in the early morning. More importantly, Old Mike and the others hadn't had a proper rest since the apocalypse began, and they desperately needed it.

  "Alright, that's it for now," Vincent said, standing up. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he pulled out his only handgun from the back of his waistband. It was a SIG P210, and though its magazine could hold seven rounds, only five remained.

  "Hey..." The group tensed up as Vincent drew his gun, and Jason even let out a startled cry.

  "Relax," Vincent said with a smile, deftly flipping the gun so that the grip faced outward. He handed it to Laura, saying, "You take the gun. There aren't many bullets left, but you'll get the hang of it. You'll probably end up being a better shot than me."

  Vincent knew his limitations and chose to trust Laura. This gesture was also a way to build rapport. If Vincent kept the gun, the others might always see him as a threat, which wasn't ideal. While Vincent wasn't one to easily warm up to strangers, he wasn't incapable of forming connections. If he wanted to befriend someone, his calm demeanor and composed nature would make it possible.

  By giving the gun to Laura, Vincent was making a calculated move, but over time, he believed they could become genuine friends—assuming they both survived. After all, humans are emotional creatures.

  Laura looked surprised but accepted the gun, examining it carefully. It was relatively new, as private firearms rarely saw extensive use. Even at shooting ranges, people typically used provided guns and ammunition.

  "Thank you," Laura said, looking up briefly before returning her gaze to the gun. It had been a while since she'd held a handgun. In the Americas, while guns were common, they were mostly shotguns kept for home defense and rarely carried outside. Handguns, unless for specific purposes, weren't typically owned by people her age.

  "You're welcome," Vincent replied with a smile. He leaned forward, rummaged through a travel bag on the coffee table, and pulled out a bag of chips. Tearing open the packaging, he walked to the window, opened the curtain slightly, and peered outside while casually munching on the chips.

  Watching the bloodied zombies while eating chips was, in Mannie's eyes, a rather macabre scene. But Vincent had no issue with blood—his tolerance was exceptionally high. He ate the chips not out of indifference but because, despite being labeled as junk food, they were high in calories and provided much-needed energy. As he observed the zombies, he was also analyzing their behavior, hoping to identify potential weaknesses.

  "Impressive appetite," Mannie remarked, standing beside him. She couldn't help but admire his ability to eat while watching such gruesome scenes.

  "Ask me anything," Vincent said, offering the bag of chips to Mannie. "Want some?"

  "No, thanks," Mannie declined, pushing the bag back. She then asked quietly, "Is there something you're not telling us?"

  "Everyone has secrets," Vincent replied, turning to her with a smile, his white teeth gleaming.

  *Crunch! Crunch!*

  At that moment, Christine joined them, munching on her bag of chips. She glanced out the window without flinching, then looked at Vincent's chips and grabbed one, popping it into her mouth. After a few chews, she shook her head slightly, apparently unimpressed with the taro flavor.

  "Want to try mine? They're barbecue flavor," Christine offered, holding out her bag of chips.

  "Sure, let me try... Hmm, not bad. We can swap," Vincent said.

  "Deal. Yours are... not bad either."

  "Vincent, look at that zombie—it's got something in its mouth."

  "Looks like a liver... No, wait, maybe a lung. Livers aren't that big... It's too dirty to tell."

  Under the shadow of death looming over the city, a man and a girl stood by the window on the second floor of a clothing store, sharing chips and casually discussing the zombies outside.

  Vincent didn't see any issue with exposing Christine to such sights. Age was irrelevant—this was the reality of the world now. Being able to face zombies calmly would only increase their chances of survival in the apocalypse.

  Mannie stood silently beside them, a faint line of exasperation forming on her forehead. The word "eccentric" took on a whole new meaning in her mind.