The morning crept in quietly, the air colder than the night before. The cracked windows of the apartment were fogged over, ice creeping along the corners. Outside, the world was silent. Frozen. But inside, there was a fragile warmth.
Ron was crouched near a battered camping stove, the flame flickering beneath a small steel pot. Steam curled upward as the familiar aroma of Maggi noodles filled the room. He'd used the last two packets they had—scraping the bottom of their supplies. But today, they needed something more than just survival. They needed comfort.
Priya stirred beneath the blanket on the mattress behind him, her face half-hidden beneath her hair. She blinked sleepily, winced slightly as her bandaged leg shifted, then slowly pushed herself upright.
Her pale skin caught the grey morning light like porcelain kissed by frost. There was a kind of softness in her eyes that still lingered, untouched by the horrors outside. Her delicate features—slender nose, faintly flushed cheeks, the way her lips barely parted with each breath—held a quiet beauty that almost didn't belong in this world. Ron noticed. He always did.
"Good morning," Priya said softly, voice still heavy with sleep.
Ron turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. "Hey," he murmured with a faint smile. "Thought I'd cook us something."
She leaned forward, sniffing the air. "Is that… Maggi?"
He nodded. "Yeah. The last of it."
They ate seated on the floor, backs resting against the peeling wall. The warmth of the noodles fought the creeping cold. Their shoulders brushed occasionally—light, accidental contacts neither of them moved away from. Priya rested her head gently against his shoulder. He didn't shift. He let her stay there.
For a fleeting moment, the weight of the world melted away.
As they finished eating the Maggi, silence settled between them again. It was the comfortable kind—the kind that didn't need to be filled. Still, something hung in the air. Something remembered.
Ron sat cross-legged, the warm metal bowl resting by his side. Priya shifted slightly, mindful of her bandaged leg, and set her own bowl down on the dusty floor.
She looked down at the empty dish and exhaled slowly. "That was our last pack, wasn't it?"
Ron nodded.
Silence stretched again, but this time it wasn't the peaceful kind.
"What are we going to do for food?" she asked softly.
Ron didn't answer right away. He looked out through a jagged crack in the broken window. The city beyond was still, painted in shades of ash and ruin. Buildings sagged. Cars rusted in place. Smoke curled faintly from a far-off rooftop.
"We find some," he said. "Or we take it."
Priya didn't flinch. She only folded her arms over her chest, trying to suppress a small shiver. Her eyes were steady on him—unwavering, even in uncertainty.
Ron turned back to her, gaze softer now. He reached out instinctively and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. It was a gentle touch, brief but full of meaning.
"I promise," he said. "We'll manage."
She gave him a tiny nod. "I believe you."
And she meant it.
A woman's scream tore through the silence.
The sound had come from across the alley, from the opposite building. Muffled, desperate.
He turned, eyes narrowing.
"There's a balcony in the next room," he said quickly, already moving. "We'll get a better view from there."
Priya didn't hesitate. She followed him into the adjacent apartment, limping slightly, the bandage on her leg dark with old blood.
The broken glass doors to the balcony rattled in the wind.Ron pushed them open just enough to peek out. From there, they had a clear view of the building across the alley—a gray, six-story block almost identical to their own.The area in front of that building was crowded with noise and motion.
Ron's jaw tightened.
A gang of armed men was tearing through each apartment—room by room, floor by floor. They had rifles slung over their shoulders, probably looted from some police station. Their eyes were cold. Purposeful.
They watched as a woman clung to one of the gunmen, screaming. "Please! Let her go, she's just a girl!"
The man didn't even look at her. He dragged a girl—young, maybe eighteen—by the wrist, pulling her toward the stairs.
Then another man stepped forward and kicked the woman hard in the ribs.
She crumpled into the snow without a sound.
The men disappeared inside the building, leaving her behind.
Ron's knuckles whitened on the balcony rail. Below them, near the entrance, nearly two dozen people were lined up in the freezing cold—shivering, silent, terrified. Survivors. Families. The last stragglers of Block 4. They were handing over every scrap of food and supplies they had, some even stripping off coats and shoes.
One by one, the survivors were dismissed, told to return to their apartments. But the woman who had lost her daughter—she stayed. Kneeling in the snow. Crying.
Priya stood at Ron's side, watching it all.
"This is getting dangerous," she said quietly. "Raj won't come after our floor yet. Not after what you did to his man last time. But sooner or later…"
Ron looked at her. "Should I bring the woman here? She probably knows where Raj keeps the supplies. Maybe even where he lives."
Priya hesitated, then nodded. "Be careful."
Five minutes later, Ron stepped out into the alley.
The cold bit into his skin like needles, but he didn't slow. The woman was still there, sobbing softly. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks with ice. Her hands were purple.
"Hey," he said gently.
She looked up, startled.
"I live across the way. If you come with me, maybe we can talk about helping your daughter."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want? No one helps for free."
Ron didn't flinch. "Information. That's all. Let's talk somewhere warm."
She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly stood. She was shaking as she followed him across the alley and up the stairs.
Inside the apartment, she froze at the doorway—nervous. But when she saw Priya sitting near the stove, she relaxed slightly and stepped in.
She sank into the couch without waiting to be asked.
"I'm Puja," she said. "My daughter's name is Shreya. We lived in a nearby Apartment. But Raj… has turned the 6-story luxury apartment building into a damn fortress. Kicked out everyone who lived there. Took over the whole floor."
Her voice cracked. "If you don't give him supplies, they shoot you. And if you don't have any… they take the women."
She looked at Ron. "Please. Help me. Before it's too late."
Ron asked quietly, "How many men does he have?"
"Twenty. All armed. They live on the fifth floor. Raj lives on the sixth—keeps all the supplies up there too. Everyone else's been pushed into the nearby buildings. He's even taken girls…"
Ron listened. Every detail painted a picture. A stronghold. A weak point. A plan.
"I'll fight him," he said.
Puja's eyes widened with hope.
Priya, on the other hand, was frowning. "Don't be reckless. They have guns."
Ron nodded. "So do I—sort of. I just move faster than bullets."
He stood and glanced toward the far room. "Puja, stay in there for now."
She obeyed silently.
Once she was gone, Ron turned back to Priya.
"If I don't do it now," he said, "there may not be another chance."
Priya looked at him for a long moment. Then quietly said, "Come back before sunset. Please. The cold is getting worse every night."
"I will.
He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture that painted her cheeks with a soft blush. She didn't stop his advance, her stillness a silent acknowledgment of the moment, then pulled on his coat.
A long black knife was hidden under the leather.
And with that, Ron stepped into the icy world once more.
Ron's boots echoed dully against the cracked stairs as he descended into the frozen silence of the building. The deeper he went, the colder it got—but his mind was burning with calculation.
Now is the time.
Raj had grown fat with supplies, confident in his power. The sixth floor was a fortress now, a stockpile of food, weapons, warmth—everything that meant survival. Ron hadn't stopped him before because there was nothing to gain. Just risk. Just bullets. But now?
Now there was something worth killing for.
Let him gather the spoils. Let him hoard and dominate. Let him dirty his hands. Now I take it all—and no one will mourn.
And Shreya—if he saved her, Puja would be loyal. Unshakably so. In a world where betrayal lurked behind every friendly face, loyalty was priceless.
He reached the entrance. The door groaned open, rusted hinges shrieking into the silence.
Inside, the air was deathly still.
Ron moved through the first floor cautiously—but it was empty. No sound. No footsteps. Just frozen shadows stretching across the ground.
Second floor—same. He passed crumbling furniture and torn curtains, frost spreading over cracked windows. Abandoned. Hollow.
Third floor—more silence. Not even a stray breath. Not a single zombie. Just the quiet of a building stripped of life.
It was unnatural. Like the place had been swept clean.
He gripped his knife tighter.
The fourth floor was different.
As he climbed the final steps, a soft click echoed.
Then he saw them—four gunmen crouched by the stair railing, rifles trained downward. They hadn't seen him yet.
They wouldn't get the chance.
Ron surged forward like a storm, grabbing the nearest two by the neck before they could react. He slammed them into opposite walls—hard enough to crack plaster and bone.
The other two opened fire in a panic, bullets sparking off the railing. But Ron weaved side to side, a blur of motion. He closed the distance and hurled one man into the other, knocking both flat.
He scooped up one of their rifles.
But the noise had already sounded the alarm.
Boots thundered above. Reinforcements were coming.
Ron ducked behind the staircase landing, teeth clenched. He fired—wild, messy shots—but his aim was terrible. Bullets went wide, and the enemy responded in a storm of gunfire.
The stairwell shook under the barrage.
He needed another way.
His eyes landed on the body he'd thrown against the wall.
In one swift, grim motion, Ron sliced off the dead man's arm below the elbow. Blood spurted. He raised the severed limb just above the stairs, gripping the attached gun.
CRACK.
A shot tore through the lifeless hand.
Ron let out a grunt and flung the body over the railing. It slammed to the floor below with a sickening thud.
Footsteps followed. Two men came down to check.
That was all Ron needed.
He burst upward, fast and silent. Grabbed both by the neck and yanked them forward, using their bodies as shields.
The firefight exploded again, bullets ripping into the two men in Ron's arms. But he kept moving forward, eyes sharp, knife ready.
He charged.
In five brutal minutes, it was over.
Eight gunmen lay dead. The two he'd used for cover were little more than shredded cloth and meat, their blood soaking Ron's jacket and face.
He stood alone in the wreckage, surrounded by warm corpses.
Then he climbed to the fifth floor.
The silence returned.
No movement. No breathing. Just the faint creak of frozen wood.
Ron stepped forward, every sense alert.
Something wasn't right.