The woman inside spoke shakily, clutching something that looked like a crumpled pack of instant noodles discarded, half-torn, clearly scavenged from someone who'd given up on it long ago. Her fingers trembled around the wrapper as if it were the most precious thing left in the world.
Damien stepped closer, baseball bat still gripped loosely in one hand, the dried blood flaking off the wood. "Miss, are you okay?"
The woman hesitated, then slowly emerged from the shadowed interior of the ruined store. She looked to be in her early thirties long black hair tangled and matted with dust, vivid green eyes still wide with leftover terror, but now flickering with cautious relief. Her clothes were simple: a faded black sweater that hugged her curves a little too tightly from stress-weight loss, paired with worn jeans and scuffed boots. Dirt streaked her pale cheeks, and her full lips quivered as she glanced down at the grotesque, desiccated husk that used to be the winged zombie. Its body had shriveled unnaturally, skin stretched tight over bones, as though every drop of life had been sucked out in seconds.
She swallowed hard. "Thank you… benefactor. If you hadn't come when you did, I would have died." Her voice cracked on the last word. Even though he'd saved her, fear still clung to her like damp rot.
Damien tilted his head slightly, red eyes narrowing behind no, wait, the glasses were gone now; he'd lost them somewhere in the chaos. "Why do you look like you're about to faint? You don't seem well."
Habit made him ask gently, almost politely, as though this were still a normal conversation in a normal world. But the moment the words left his mouth, he remembered: this wasn't his old life. This was a graveyard of concrete and blood, and normal no longer existed.
The woman's gaze dropped to the noodle pack in her hands. "I… I haven't eaten in four days. This is all I have left. Can I… can I have some?"
Damien blinked. The pieces clicked. She wasn't scared of him because he'd killed the monster she was scared he'd take her food.
He raised a hand quickly. "No, no—I don't need that. Keep it. Eat." He gave a small, awkward smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Where do you live, by the way?"
As he spoke, his gaze drifted upward. Above her head, floating like a cruel subtitle only he could see:
Lifespan: 42 years.
Wow. She's only got 42 years left, he thought. Not bad for someone starving in an apocalypse… but still. His own counter now read 153. The gap felt obscene.
The woman hesitated again. "I… I live in the neighborhood building." She pointed vaguely toward a towering structure across the square once a respectable mid-rise apartment block, now half-collapsed, windows like missing teeth, rebar jutting out like broken bones.
Damien raised an eyebrow. "Do you live with someone? Family? A group?"
She shook her head slowly. "No… I live alone. I'm… not an Awakened. So they left me here." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The others went to the shelter on the east riverside. They said I'd only slow them down."
Damien's mind raced. Oh. That's why she didn't ask about my power. She already assumes anyone strong enough to kill a winged freak like that is Awakened. No need for explanations. And… shit, this woman, or whatever her name turns out to be really is alone. No husband, no group, no cliché rescue party waiting in the wings. Just her and a pack of instant noodles.
He cleared his throat. "What's your name, miss?"
"Layra… Layra Carmel." She managed a tiny, tired bow of her head.
"Damien Crowe. You can call me Damien."
A beat of silence. Then she looked up at him again, curiosity finally edging out some of the fear. "So… benefactor… why is someone as powerful as you here? An Awakened who can kill the Infected without even touching them… I don't think someone like you would get kicked out."
Damien inwardly cursed. Shit. Can't just say "I got isekai'd and stole a zombie's lifespan." Think fast.
After a moment, he shrugged casually, the lie sliding out smooth as silk. "Well… you see, I was left behind too. Just like you. But I Awakened my ability two days ago. Turns out I can kill them with a thought." He tapped his temple lightly, as if it were no big deal.
Layra's green eyes widened. "That's… incredible, Mr. Damien." She knew exactly what that kind of power meant in this world: survival. Safety. And being left behind anyway.
"But why are you here?" she pressed softly. "You didn't answer."
He scratched the back of his neck, forcing a sheepish grin. "Ummm… the place I was staying got destroyed overnight. I've just been wandering, looking for somewhere safe to crash and something to eat." He chuckled weakly. "Heh."
Internally: Like hell I'm hungry. After draining that zombie, I don't even feel the need to eat. So that's another perk of this messed-up power. Lifespan isn't just storage it's fuel.
Layra bit her lip, glancing between him and the ruined street. Then, hesitantly: "If… if you don't mind… you could stay with me."
Damien blinked. "You sure? I mean… I'm a guy."
"In this apocalypse, no one cares about that anymore, Mr. Damien. So… I don't mind." Her voice was quiet, but there was a fragile determination in it. She'd clearly weighed the risks: starve alone, or take a chance on the stranger who could kill monsters by thinking about it.
He studied her for a long moment those vivid green eyes, the way her sweater clung to her curves despite the hunger hollowing her cheeks, the quiet strength beneath the fear.
Damien gave a small nod. "Alright. Lead the way, ms Layra."
As they started walking toward the half-collapsed building, he glanced at the floating number above her head one more time.
42 years.
Not if I can help it, he thought grimly. This power… it's not just about me surviving. Maybe it's about keeping the few people left from turning into dust too.