Bonus Chapter!
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He got good at finding joy in adversity.
Compared to the IEDs and the smell of burning flesh, it was a joke.
His goal became simple: pay off the mortgage, find a beautiful woman who didn't know about the desert, and settle down.
If you looked at it that way, Atlas was painfully ordinary. Just another vet trying to reintegrate.
The only commendable thing he ever did—the only thing that truly separated him from the nihilism that threatened to consume him—was the last moment of his life.
The little girl.
It was instinct the moment the gun was pointed at him. The same instinct that made him hesitate with the kids in Afghanistan. But this time, he didn't have a rifle. He just had his body.
He pushed her out of the way.
He felt the adrenaline, the wildness and impact. The shattering of bones. The darkness.
Atlas had no regrets losing his life to save her.
"Who has time to ponder in the moment of saving a life?" he mused. "Humans lead ordinary lives for years, but one glorious moment is enough to redeem a lifetime of sins."
He lay in the hotel bed, a faint smile touching his lips.
He had lived many of these glorious moments all thanks to his Maa, who he used to curse for giving him such advice, but when he saw the truth, he was very thankful. And instead of the void, he was here.
The System. The T-Virus. The power to control his own destiny. To eventually reach the solution that plagued his later life.
Here, in Raccoon City, there were no Rules of Engagement. There were no politicians sending him to die for oil. There was only the strong and the weak. And for the first time in his life, Atlas was the strongest thing in the room.
His only regret…
His face fell slightly.
"Mom. Dad. Maa"
They had to be grieving. The knock on the door. The folded flag. The casket of their young son.
"I hope the insurance payout was good," Atlas whispered, a tear he couldn't shed prickling behind his eyes. "I hope it paid off the house."
For fifteen minutes, the room was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning.
Atlas lay on the bed, motionless as a corpse, letting the ghosts and emotions of his past wash over him. He felt the heat of the Afghan sun, heard the crack of the AK-47 that ended his military career, and saw the final, terrified expression of the girl he died saving in the intersection.
He let the memories come, and he let them go. They were the foundation, but they were no longer the structure. The self that was a soldier, a gamer, an ordinary man, a loving son—that self was dust.
…
…
…
For fifteen minutes he remained there laying on the bed letting the past wash over him. He only opened his eyes when he heard a light knock on the door.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was light, hesitant, barely audible against the heavy mahogany door.
Atlas didn't flinch. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing grey irises that seemed to swirl with a faint light before settling into a calm, steel gaze.
He shook his head, physically shaking the lingering sadness away like water from a dog's coat.
He was Atlas Cruor now. He was an anomaly. And he had a magnificent, terrible life to enjoy.
He sat up, the white terrycloth robe slipping off his wide shoulders, exposing the marble-white skin and the dense, corded muscle of his chest.
"Who is it?" Atlas asked.
His voice was deep, resonant, and controlled. It didn't sound like someone who had just been mourning; it sounded like a man addressing another.
"Room service," a sweet, feminine voice called from the hallway. "The food you ordered is here, sir."
Atlas sighed, a long exhale that expelled the last of his humanity's grief.
"Showtime," he whispered.
He stood up, tightening the belt of his robe, and walked to the door. He checked his posture in the hallway mirror—imposing, relaxed, dangerous. He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Standing there was a young woman, likely no older than twenty-seven. She was dressed in the hotel's uniform—a modernized maid outfit consisting of a black skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a small apron. Her nametag read "Chloe."
She was looking down at her clipboard, checking the order.
"I have the Executive Breakfast for Room 30—"
She looked up. Her voice died in her throat.
The man standing in the doorway was... overwhelming.
At 6'1", Atlas towered over her 5'5" frame. But it wasn't just the height. It was the presence. The steam from his shower still clung to him, carrying the scent of expensive sandalwood soap and something else—a sharp, masculine musk that triggered a primal response in her hindbrain.
His robe was loose, revealing a V-shape of chest that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. His skin was impossibly pale, flawless, contrasting with the wet, silver-grey hair slicked back from his face.
Chloe's eyes widened. Her cheeks flushed a deep, instant crimson. She gripped the handle of the food trolley tighter, her knuckles turning white.
"U-um..." she stammered, her professionalism evaporating. "Sir. I... I have your order."
Atlas smiled. It wasn't the predatory grin he gave the zombies. It was a soft, charming smile, practical and polite.
"Thank you, Chloe," Atlas said, stepping back and holding the door wide. "Please, come in."
She pushed the cart inside. It was heavy, laden with silver domed platters. The wheels squeaked slightly on the plush carpet.
She looked around the room, expecting to see a partner. A girlfriend. A business associate. There was enough food on the cart to feed a squad of Marines.
"Is... is anyone else joining you?" Chloe asked, glancing at the single pair of muddy boots by the door.
"Just me," Atlas replied, closing the door. "I have a very high metabolism. Long night."
"Oh. Right. Of course."
She maneuvered the cart to the dining table near the window. Her hands were shaking slightly as she began to unload the plates. She could feel his eyes on her. He wasn't leering, but his gaze felt physical, like a weight resting on her shoulders.
Atlas walked over to the desk where his black tactical backpack sat. He unzipped the front pocket.
The smell of the food hit him.
Bacon. Eggs. Seared steak. Freshly brewed coffee.
His soul—or whatever had replaced it—gave a low, anticipating rumble and even though his stomach was not hungry.
Chloe finished setting the table. She straightened up, smoothing her apron, trying to regain her composure. She risked a glance at him. He was leaning against the desk, watching her with an expression that was cool, casual, and vaguely amused.
"Will that be all, sir?" she asked, her voice breathless.
Atlas reached into the bag and pulled out a small stack of cash. He peeled off a few bills.
He walked over to her. The proximity made her heart race. He smelled like rain and power.
"For your trouble," Atlas said, extending his hand.
Chloe looked down. It was three ten-dollar bills. Thirty dollars.
In 2002, a standard tip for room service was maybe two or three bucks. Thirty dollars was more than a day's wage for her.
"T-this is far too much!" she stammered, her eyes widening. She tried to push his hand back gently. "Sir, this is... this is more than the bill for the food!"
Atlas remained there, unmoving. He brushed a speck of nonexistent dust off his sleeve with his free hand.
"Keep it," he said, his tone brokering no argument. "Consider it a hazard pay."
"Hazard pay?" she asked, confused.
"Ideally, for dealing with a guest who orders five eggs at 8:00 AM," Atlas joked smoothly.
In his mind, however, the thought was colder: 'I looted it from a bank anyway. I didn't earn this through sweat and tears. It's paper. In a few days, this money will be ash. I might as well spread it around while it still has value. Maybe she can buy a bus ticket out of town with it.'
Chloe hesitated, then took the money. Her fingers brushed against his. His skin was cold—startlingly so.
"Thank you," she whispered, tucking the cash into her apron pocket. "You're very generous."
She didn't leave.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. It grew heavier, charged with a sudden, unspoken tension.
Chloe looked at him. She adjusted the collar of her blouse, pulling it slightly lower, ostensibly to fix a button, but the intent was clear. She shifted her weight, accentuating the curve of her hips.
"Is there... anything else you need, sir?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur.
She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on the opening of his robe. "We offer full service here. Anything to make your stay more... comfortable."
Atlas watched her performance with the detached interest of an anthropologist.
He saw the dilation of her pupils. He smelled the spike in her womanly charms. She was attracted to him, yes, but she was also attracted to the power he radiated and the cash he threw around like confetti.
In his old life, he would have taken the offer.
Now? He just felt extreme curiosity. And not for her.
He smiled, a gentle let-down.
"You are very kind, Chloe," Atlas said softly. "And very lovely." He saw her brighten, stepping closer.
"But," Atlas continued, holding up a hand. "I have a lot of work to do. And frankly, I prefer to eat my steak while it's hot."
The rejection was polite, but it was a wall of steel.
Chloe blinked, realizing she had been dismissed. A flush of embarrassment rose up her neck. She forced a smile, stepping back.
"O-of course," she said, retreating to the door. "Enjoy your meal, sir. If you need... anything... just call the room service."
"I will," Atlas nodded.
She slipped out the door, clicking the lock behind her.
Atlas stood there for a moment, listening to her footsteps retreat down the hall.
"Cute," he muttered. "But I have priorities."
He turned around and faced the table.
The humor vanished from his face. The confidence evaporated.
He walked toward the table slowly, as if approaching a bomb.
He pulled out the chair and sat down.
In front of him lay a feast. A medium-rare ribeye steak, still sizzling. Five sunny-side-up eggs. A stack of toast, a fresh garden salad. Chicken wings, grilled fish, and a bowl of soup—apples, bananas, citrus.
A pot of black coffee.
It looked delicious. It smelled nice.
But Atlas felt a knot of genuine fear in his stomach.
This was the test.
He was a Tier-1 Undead Variant. He was a zombie. A highly evolved, intelligent, super-powered zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.
And zombies... they ate flesh. Raw, living flesh.
In the lore of movies and anime—Tokyo Ghoul, Vampire: The Masquerade—creatures like him usually lost the ability to consume human food.
It tasted like ash. It made them vomit.
If he couldn't eat this... if he was condemned to not eating, losing life's biggest loss in the wonderful life... his dream of a "Perfect Life" was over. He didn't want to be a monster who couldn't enjoy a pizza. He wanted to be a man who enjoyed everything, even the minor pleasures of life.
And Eating a big part of it