Yoo-jin tore into the bread like someone who had forgotten how teeth worked. Crust cracked. Soft interior gave way. She chewed once—twice—then swallowed without really tasting, already reaching for the next chunk. Tears tracked clean lines through the grime on her cheeks; she didn't notice.

  The water came next. She tipped the bottle too fast. Clear liquid spilled down her chin, soaked the colr of her torn shirt. A small, broken sound escaped her throat—half sob, half ugh.

  Si-hun watched from the opposite side of the counter. Arms crossed. Expression bnk.

  She slowed only when half the loaf was gone. Breath steadied. Eyes cleared. Then the questions arrived.

  She lowered the bottle. Wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. Stared at the remaining bread—golden, untouched by mold. Looked around the minimart again: empty shelves, shattered coolers, no hum of electricity.

  "How?" Voice still rough, but sharper now. "This bread. The water. Nothing here is fresh. Nothing." She met his eyes. "Where did you get it?"

  Si-hun didn't blink. "Doesn't matter." He leaned forward slightly. "What matters is you're breathing. And you're holding food you didn't have ten minutes ago." A beat. "Some questions cost more than they're worth. This one does."

  Yoo-jin's jaw tightened. She wanted to push. But hunger had stripped her pride raw. And the memory of teeth at her throat was still warm.

  She exhaled through her nose. Set the bottle down carefully. "Fine."

  Si-hun straightened. He tapped the counter once—deliberate. "I saved you. I fed you. I'm offering more." He held up three fingers. "Three rules. Non-negotiable."

  One. "I decide supply runs. I decide the route. I decide when we move." Two. "You fight. Front line. You follow orders the second I give them. No hesitation. No debate." Three. "You betray me—or you slow me down—you become bait. I walk away. They eat. That's it."

  Silence stretched. Outside, the shutter groaned under zy fists.

  Yoo-jin stared at the three raised fingers like they were a drawn bde. She had captained the kendo club for two years. She knew hierarchy. Knew obedience under pressure. Knew what happened when someone broke rank in a real fight.

  She hated his tone. Hated the ice in it. But she also hated dying more.

  She lifted her chin. "Deal."

  Si-hun lowered his hand. No smile. No handshake. Just a single nod.

  He turned away, already moving.

  Behind the counter he paused. Rolled his shoulder. A dull ache pulsed deep in the joint—phantom teeth still grinding against bone that wasn't there anymore. Every step echoed the clone's final moments: torn muscle, popped tendons, wet snaps. His real body hadn't taken a single hit. And yet it hurt like it had.

  If the feedback scaled with the number of clones… If the pain stacked… He would break long before he reached real power.

  A blue window materialized in his vision, cold and unblinking.

  [Milestone Objective Updated] [Accumute 300 Days Lifespan → Unlock Level 3: Personal Stat Points] [Current Pool: 98 Days] [Remaining: 202 Days]

  Two hundred and two days. Two hundred ordinary zombies at minimum. Too slow. Too exposed. Too many chances for a lucky bite or a colpsing building. He needed bigger prey. Mutants. Variants. Anything worth more than +1.

  First—survive the night.

  He scanned the wreckage behind the registers. Found a half-roll of filthy gauze, brown at the edges. A small pstic bottle—rubbing alcohol, maybe two centimeters left at the bottom.

  He slipped behind the storage door. Out of her line of sight.

  [Duplicate Target: Bandage Roll] [Cost: 1 Day | Y/N]

  Blue light pulsed once—soft, contained. The roll in his hand doubled. Clean white gauze. No stains. No smell of mildew.

  Same with the alcohol. Bottle refilled. Cap pristine. Sharp medicinal scent cut through the rot.

  He walked back out. Tossed both to her without ceremony.

  "Clean your wounds. Now."

  Yoo-jin caught them. Stared. The gauze was hospital-white. The bottle looked factory-sealed. She looked up at him—searching for the trick. Found nothing but impatience in his stare.

  She swallowed the questions. Tore her sleeve wider. Poured alcohol over the gash on her shoulder.

  The liquid hit torn flesh like molten wire. Her entire body locked—spine arched, breath sucked in so hard her ribs creaked. Teeth cmped down on her lower lip until copper bloomed inside her mouth. A thin, involuntary whimper slipped out before she could strangle it. She smmed her free hand against the counter, knuckles white, nails digging crescent moons into her palm.

  She refused to scream. Refused to let the sound live.

  Si-hun watched. Not with pity. Not with concern. With clinical detachment. Eyes tracking the tremor in her shoulders, the sweat beading at her temple, the way her breathing stuttered then steadied. Assessing structural integrity. Checking whether the weapon still held an edge.

  She finished wrapping the shoulder. Moved to the cut on her thigh. Same ritual. Same silent war against the pain. When she finally looked up, her eyes were wet—but clear. Focused.

  Si-hun gave one short nod. Passed.

  He turned to the colpsed shelving. A length of steel pipe—thick, rusted at one end—jutted from the debris. He kicked it free. Heavy. Banced.

  [Duplicate Target: Steel Pipe] [Cost: 1 Day | Y/N]

  Another pulse of blue. Second pipe materialized beside the first. Same weight. Same length. Rust gone.

  He held one out to her.

  Yoo-jin took it. The weight settled into her palms—heavier than her old bokken by far. Solid. Unforgiving. She shifted her grip. Tested the bance. Swung once—slow arc through the stale air. The pipe cut a low whistle. No flex. No give. She imagined driving it through a skull: the metal would transmit the impact straight up her arms, no splintering, no breakage. Just clean, brutal transfer of force.

  Her eyes changed. The hollow exhaustion receded. Something older—sharper—ignited behind her pupils. The look of someone who had spent years learning exactly how much force it took to end a life cleanly.

  Current pool: 95 Days.

  The shutter gave another metallic scream—deeper this time. A section near the bottom buckled inward.

  "Time's up," Si-hun said.

  He pulled a crumpled campus map from his pocket. Tapped a circled building. "Faculty apartments. High fence. Keycard doors. Thick walls. Better than here."

  Yoo-jin looked at the map. Then at the back door—the same alley where something had bled out violently not long ago.

  Si-hun stepped to the rear exit. Listened. Smelled it before he saw it.

  He pushed the door open.

  The alley reeked of iron and ruptured organs.

  Blood painted the concrete in wide, arterial sprays—still glossy in pces, already clotting bck in others. Chunks of meat y scattered: a ragged strip of intestine coiled like wet rope, a piece of pectoral muscle still clinging to shredded fabric. The fabric. Same gray hoodie. Same tear pattern on the sleeve. Same bloodstain pattern he could feel drying on his own chest right now.

  No body. Just pieces. And the unmistakable smell of his own death, minutes old.

  Yoo-jin stepped up behind him. Froze.

  Her gaze tracked the carnage. The spray radius. The shredded cloth that matched his exactly. Her grip tightened on the pipe until the metal creaked.

  "What… the hell happened here?" Voice low. Almost a whisper.

  Si-hun didn't answer. He stepped over a loop of intestine. Pipe resting on his shoulder.

  "Keep up."

  Three zombies already turning at the far end of the alley—heads cocking, nostrils fring at the banquet smell.

  Yoo-jin exhaled once—sharp, centering breath. She stepped up beside him. Pipe resting on her shoulder like a bokken waiting to be drawn. Eyes locked forward. No more questions.

  Si-hun cracked his neck once. Raised his own pipe.

  No more running. No more hiding.

  Just farming.

  He moved first.

  She followed—silent, steady, two steps behind and to the right.