Manuela quietly slipped off the bed and walked to the window, her back to Vincent. She pulled the curtain aside just enough to peer out at the street below, her arms crossed over her chest. The sight of the grotesque zombies shuffling aimlessly made her stomach churn, but she said nothing.

  Manuela wasn’t a fragile woman—not emotionally, at least. She had started her career at sixteen, and over the years, she’d lost count of the clients she’d serviced—young, old, ordinary, repulsive. As long as they paid, she didn’t care. Money meant survival. She’d been through a lot, even battled a drug addiction at one point, though she’d kicked the habit. Those experiences had hardened her, giving her a resilience that many lacked.

  But zombies… they were different. Fear wasn’t something you could just push aside.

  Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, mentally running through his checklist of supplies. A faint sound caught his attention—soft, muffled sobs. He turned his head and saw Manuela’s shoulders shaking.

  “You don’t need to cry,” Vincent said, his tone tinged with resignation. “If you’re brave enough, getting out of here isn’t impossible. And… maybe you can come with me.”

  Manuela spun around, wiping her eyes. “Really? Thank you!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with relief.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” Vincent clarified, gesturing as he spoke. “When I say ‘come with me,’ I mean you follow behind me. I’ll be in front, and I won’t help you if you get into trouble. If a zombie grabs you, it means you weren’t fast enough. I won’t come back for you. Understand?”

  “Understood,” Manuela replied quickly, a small smile breaking through. She got it. Vincent was willing to let her tag along, but if she slowed him down or got herself into trouble, he wouldn’t risk his life to save her. As long as she kept up, she’d be under his protection.

  **Noon**

  Vincent was a straightforward man, not one to let emotions cloud his judgment. The atmosphere between them was surprisingly calm. Manuela, however, seemed determined to test his resolve. She ate her bread with deliberate slowness, letting cream linger on her lips before licking it off, her eyes never leaving Vincent. But Vincent remained unfazed, occasionally giving her a knowing, almost amused look. He wasn’t oblivious—he just had better self-control.

  **Afternoon**

  The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room. The air was cool, but the tension was palpable. The stench of blood lingered, and the occasional gunshot or distant scream reminded them of the chaos outside.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Vincent had moved the room’s only armchair to the window. He sat half-reclined, gazing at the blue sky through the crack in the curtains. A scalpel spun effortlessly between his fingers, its blade catching the light. His phone, set to radio mode, rested beside him.

  Scalpels came in many varieties, with different handles and blades. The one Vincent held had a #4 handle, about 14 centimeters long, paired with a #24 blade, roughly five to six centimeters in length. Its shape resembled the tip of a dagger, designed for precise, shallow cuts. But in the right hands, it could be just as deadly as any weapon.

  The scalpel was made of S30V steel, a material prized for its hardness and commonly used in military equipment. While it lacked some flexibility, it was perfect for crafting short blades and daggers.

  Manuela had known little about Vincent before the outbreak. Their only real conversation had been a year ago when he’d fixed her broken light. She’d learned then that he’d studied medicine, so seeing him idly twirl a scalpel didn’t strike her as odd.

  “Aren’t you afraid of cutting yourself?” Manuela asked softly, crouching beside the armchair. She wore a V-neck shirt, and as Vincent turned to look at her, his gaze inevitably dropped to the alluring curve of her chest.

  She was up to her old tricks again.

  Vincent’s hand stopped mid-spin. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the scalpel flying.

  *Thunk.*

  “I think I’ll be fine. Thanks for the concern,” Vincent said, forcing a small smile. In a world like this, even a faint smile was a gesture of goodwill.

  Manuela’s eyes widened as she realized what had just happened. She hadn’t heard the scalpel hit the floor. Turning her head, she saw it embedded in the wall, the blade sunk deep into the concrete.

  She stood slowly, her eyes darting between Vincent and the wall. After a moment, she walked over and pulled the scalpel free, running her fingers over the small hole it had left. The wall was solid concrete, yet the blade had penetrated several centimeters. Even a grown man with a dagger would struggle to achieve that kind of force.

  Her hand moved to the right, finding another hole, then another. Stepping back, she took in the full scope of the wall beside the bed. It was riddled with hundreds of tiny marks, each one a testament to Vincent’s precision. She hadn’t noticed them before, too distracted by fear and the general disarray of the room.

  “You throw knives?” Manuela asked, turning back to Vincent with the scalpel in hand, her voice tinged with awe.

  “Just something to pass the time,” Vincent replied with a shrug, his gaze returning to the sky outside.

  It was true. He’d started throwing scalpels out of boredom. Each blade was designed for single use, discarded after surgery to prevent contamination or dulling. Instead of tossing them, Vincent had repurposed them, honing his aim during long, lonely nights. Over time, he’d gotten good—very good.

  He didn’t tell Manuela that the wall had been patched and repainted multiple times, the current marks representing just the last three months of practice. There was no need to boast. In a world overrun by the undead, skill with a scalpel was a small comfort at best.

  “Could this kill those things outside?” Manuela asked, crouching again and holding up the scalpel.

  “Probably,” Vincent said flatly, taking the blade from her. He didn’t seem particularly impressed with his skill. To him, a well-thrown scalpel was no substitute for a gun. It was a small advantage, but it did little to ease the weight of the world outside.