4DAS Chapter 1 (Part 3)

“Come to think of it, how old are you?”

“…Sorry?”

“Judging by the textbooks on your shelf, I figured you were a college kid. Some kind of science major, chemistry or whatever. Or did you already graduate? Or do you just leave them up as decoration because you’re too lazy to throw them out?”

Textbooks? For a second, Rowon didn’t follow—then he remembered that the man had been in his room. That must be why it had taken him a while to bring back the first-aid kit. He must have lingered to look around. After a pause, Rowon answered.

“I’m twenty.”

“What?”

“Well, technically that was as of last December. That’s around when I was infected, I think. A year’s passed since then, so I guess I’m twenty-one now. By international age… hmm, my birthday already passed, so that makes me twenty.”

“Twenty by international count.”

“Yes. It doesn’t feel real, but that’s how it is. By school years, I should be in my second year of university. But with the world like this, even if I had my sanity, there’s no way I’d still be going to class.”

The school was probably closed. Even if the treatment gas restored the world, it would be a long time before universities functioned normally again. Would he ever sit in lectures again? He used to think of them as a chore, but now he missed them. It was laughable.

But the man gave a different kind of laugh—one dry, hollow sound, as if the whole thing struck him as absurd in another way.

“…You’re really a kid.”

“…Huh?”

“I thought maybe you’d at least gone to the army, if not graduated. But twenty? Shit….”

“No, I’m twenty-one now. And graduation? Do I really look that old?”

“Don’t talk like that, you little shit! And graduation’s not old. That’s when life actually starts. You never heard of the term ‘freshman in society’?”

He scolded him in disbelief, then suddenly raised his hand and began kneading Rowon’s face. Rowon’s cheeks flushed red, but the man pressed and prodded them like dough until he sighed in dissatisfaction and let go.

“Well, your cheeks are still soft enough. No, you don’t look old. Christ, Park Young-il, to think I got beaten and almost strangled to death by a brat like this….”

“…And you, how old are you?”

“Me? Forty-five.”

He looked every bit the age he claimed. With a deflated sort of expression, the man glared at Rowon, then shoved the ointment into his hand before turning his back.

Rowon stared at the ointment for a moment before coming to his senses and starting to apply it to the man’s back. After a hesitant pause, he carefully asked,

“Forty-five… What was your job, before all this?”

“Why the sudden background check?”

“It’s not that. I’m just curious. You knew I was a college student, so I’m allowed to wonder about you too, aren’t I?”

In this world, a job hardly mattered anymore, but Rowon wanted to know something more about him. The man wore his clothes, snooped around his room, yet Rowon knew nothing about him. It felt unfair. He wondered if the man would refuse, but the answer came easily, like it was no big deal.

“Schoolteacher.”

“…A PE teacher?”

“PE my ass. Ethics.”

“Oh.”

“High school. I taught Ethics in Life and Ethics and Philosophy. Kant, Rousseau, Rawls, that kind of stuff. You know the names?”

“I’ve barely heard of Kant.”

It was a dumb answer, but the man just smirked. He hadn’t expected much—he knew Rowon’s major was different. Still, it was oddly out of place. The image didn’t fit. Rowon had thought for sure it would be something physical. Not hard labor necessarily, but at least something active.

The unexpected answer made him pause, until the man glanced back with an indulgent smile—the kind adults gave to children asking innocent questions.

“My wife was a fitness trainer.”

“…Oh.”

“I first met her at the local gym. There were male trainers too, so I didn’t think she’d be assigned to me, but somehow we got paired up. She pushed me hard—strength training, diet, everything.”

“……”

“I might look like this now, but back then I was just a tall string bean. You know those inflatable tube things flapping around in front of stores? That was me. Couldn’t put on weight no matter what I ate.”

“……”

“If you’d met me then, you wouldn’t question my job. But after I met her, my body changed…. Said she liked tall, muscular guys.”

His voice was as soft and easy as his gaze. It was almost like listening to a high school teacher reminiscing about his first love. Maybe that was natural, given his profession.

But Rowon couldn’t sit there listening so idly. Hearing about the dead carried a different weight than hearing about the living.

“She was strong. When the outbreak started, when we fled with our daughter, she was always the one at the front, breaking through everything.”

“……”

“Honestly, I was useless. If not for her, I don’t think I’d have made it.”

He had known for some time that the man had once had a wife. Hadn’t he raged from the very first day, shouting that Rowon’s parents had killed her? But hearing the story abstractly, bundled up in a few bitter words, was very different from listening as the details were laid out one by one.

I don’t want to hear this.

There was nothing good to be gained from knowing more. It had nothing to do with the present situation. Why was this man telling such things to the child of his enemy in the first place? And what could possibly come from carefully retelling the life of someone already gone?

If he dredged up the wrong memories again, he might try strangling someone. That thought crossed Rowon’s mind like a biting remark he hadn’t meant to make, but couldn’t help.

The man was impossible to understand. Why keep recalling the fact that he had killed? Why keep revisiting the death of a family he had cherished? Why go back to a past that could only bring suffering? What good did it do? All it could do was drive someone insane.

If it had been Rowon, he never would have remembered. In a ruined world like this, with no evidence left but memory, it was better to forget everything, to erase it as if it had never been. That way survival might come a little easier. Yes, he would still be broken, but at least he wouldn’t collapse. So…

Don’t tell me these things.

The words pressed up into his throat. He had already forgotten so much, and there were so many things he wanted to make as though they had never happened. Not all of them were memories from his time as a zombie.

For example, that twisted knot in his stomach the day he first met this man—he had deliberately forgotten that. The moment the man said he had a wife, that he had truly loved her, some emotion had welled up inside Rowon, then vanished again. And Rowon had cleanly erased it. If it was only his own impulse to die, then if he erased it, no one would ever know.

So he wanted to say it—please, stop telling me these things. But how could he put it indirectly? How could he stop the story without provoking the man further?

Then—

“…Hm?”

Though Rowon hadn’t spoken a word, the man suddenly fell silent. His expression froze, and his distant, hazy eyes snapped back into focus. Had he already recalled something bad? Rowon wondered for a moment, but no.

“Outside… there’s a sound.”

“A car? But wasn’t the treatment gas supposed to be scheduled? It doesn’t seem like it’s that time yet.”

“Scheduled or not, the sound’s different! That’s a motorcycle engine. More than one. There aren’t many around here who ride in groups like that.”

Vrrrm—the noise burst through the wide-open window, loud as a boiler erupting. It was definitely motorcycle engines. The fact that vehicles other than the treatment gas trucks were roaming outside surprised Rowon, but seeing the man’s face blanch as he glanced out told him this was no good sign.

“And they’re coming this way.”

The roar of multiple engines stopped in front of the apartment. The man immediately pulled on his shirt and carefully rose to his feet.

---

Unlike the old days, when countless delivery drivers rode motorcycles up and down the roads, riding one in the world after the zombie outbreak was no easy feat.

The problem wasn’t fuel. Gasoline could be scavenged from abandoned stations or siphoned from deserted cars without too much trouble. The real problem was the zombies. The loud exhaust noise drew their attention, and their muscle-ripping bursts of speed were enough to threaten a motorcycle.

Some zombies could run so unnaturally fast that they could easily overtake a bike and sink their teeth into the rider’s head. At least a small car could withstand a few attacks, but on a motorcycle there was no real way to defend against them.

So riding a motorcycle in this world was a bold show of bravado. It was practically a declaration that even if zombies swarmed, you had the strength to fight them off.

No, not bravado—closer to madness, really. There were even those who actively hunted zombies.

Quite a few so-called “zombie hunters” would use the roar of engines to lure them in, then wipe them out with Molotov cocktails or makeshift weapons. These people didn’t just defend themselves—they treated zombies as prey.

Plenty of them ended up dead or bitten, but they didn’t care. They had their justification: if “normal humans” wiped out zombies before the zombies killed anyone else, then everyone would be safer. They were, in their own words, law enforcers of the age. Radicals insisted on that, and for a while, there were many who agreed.

But things shifted once the treatment gas incapacitated most zombies. When it was revealed that the infected were actually treatable humans, the hunters’ justification faltered. As the government started to reassert its authority—claiming peaceful resolution through gas dispersal—people began resisting the hunters’ clumsy attempts at playing police.

Now the hunters were derided as nothing more than “biker gangs” or “delinquents,” and their numbers dropped sharply. Even within their ranks they fractured, splitting between moderates who wanted to cooperate with authorities and hardliners who still demanded complete eradication of zombies.

I don’t know if the ones outside are moderates or hardliners… but why did they come here?

Either way, this apartment complex should mean nothing to them. Zombies in this area had long since been wiped out, and if their goal was looting, the periodic relief supplies would be a better target.

He quickly approached the window and cautiously peeked outside. Thanks to that reckless youth tearing down the barricades, if they tried to break in through the windows, there would be no way to stop them. Young-il regretted not trying harder to stop him. Dying from heatstroke was bad, yes, but better than being murdered by raiders.

Fortunately, there was no window assault. Looking carefully outside, he saw three or four bikes parked at the apartment entrance, engines off, their riders nowhere in sight. It wasn’t hard to guess where they’d gone, though—heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway.

He hoped they might pass by and go upstairs, but the footsteps stopped right outside their own door. And then the last shred of hope was shattered by a sudden noise.

Ding-dong. The doorbell, unused for so long, apparently still worked.

[Someone’s in there, right? We’ve got a question for you, so don’t pretend you’re not home. Come on out.]

A rough, drawling voice came from beyond the door. The youth seemed to hear it too, shuffling as if to step outside, but Young-il waved frantically, mouthing the words.

Idiot, hide!

But they came to my house… the youth mouthed back in protest, trying to keep his voice low.

Young-il scowled deeply and shook his head. They weren’t here for the boy. They couldn’t be.

There were several apartment buildings in the area—how could anyone know who lived where? These days, people often just broke into empty homes and stayed there. If there were signs of life inside, it was normal to knock on any door.

Be ready to act if things go bad. At least one of us has to stay hidden—it’ll make an ambush easier!

When Young-il mouthed the words, the youth seemed to understand and moved quietly toward the kitchen. Probably to grab a kitchen knife at least. From the front door or bedroom, the kitchen couldn’t be seen, and since the barricade was still up on that side, it wasn’t a bad choice.

Once he was sure the boy was hidden, Young-il went to the front door. Better for an adult to answer than a twenty-year-old kid. Ever since learning the youth’s age, Young-il had adjusted his view of him quite a bit.

A kid.

He hadn’t even done military service. Strong as he might be, dulled as his emotions were, dangerous as his presence sometimes felt—he was still just barely an adult. Hiding behind someone only a couple of years older than the students he used to teach was out of the question.

And besides, the boy doesn’t know the ways of the world. No, better if he stayed back. These guys probably didn’t come looking for a fight.

If they’d meant to fight, they would have smashed in through the window already. The fact that they were at the door meant they wanted to talk. Someone who knew nothing about the world after the outbreak couldn’t be trusted to negotiate.

So it had to be him.

Young-il hooked the chain latch, opened the door just a crack, and the first thing he saw was a man’s fierce face.

“If you’re gonna open, then open it all the way. Don’t cower like a rat. You think there’s anything worth stealing in this dump?”

“And what exactly am I supposed to trust you on? Just tell me what you want.”

Feigning calm, Young-il glanced outside. He couldn’t see much through the narrow crack, but the man wasn’t alone—others stood behind him, clearly from the same gang.

Strangers, obviously. And just as obviously, they hadn’t come with good intentions. Every one of them wore the same sour, mean expression. The old word “biker gang” might have felt outdated, but it fit them perfectly.

Bang—the bikers shook the door impatiently. Luckily the latch held firm, but it was plain they had no intention of being civil.

So what the hell do you want? As his irritation built, a softer voice rose from behind them.

“Don’t be so harsh. We’re the ones in need right now.”

“But—”

“Let me explain first, all right? Just for a moment.”

The thug at the front stepped aside, and from behind came another man, younger, maybe around thirty. Compared to the others, his face was softer, almost friendly.

He was the only one speaking politely, but even so, it was clear he was the one in control. Maybe not the leader, but someone with influence.

When their eyes met, the man gave a sheepish smile, as if apologizing for his comrades’ rudeness, and spoke.

“Hello. My name is Baek Seong-hyeon. Sorry for dropping by so suddenly—it must have startled you.”

“…Yeah. So, what do you want? Whatever it is, you’re dragging this out.”

Names? Here and now? As if they’d be seeing each other again? Of course Young-il didn’t give his own, just watched him warily. Baek shrugged, as if he knew how suspicious he seemed. Then he continued.

“We’re looking for a zombie. Or, perhaps by now, someone who’s turned back into a human.”

“…A zombie?”

Not a person, but a zombie? Young-il frowned at the absurdity. Instead of answering right away, Baek pulled something from his pocket.

A smartphone?

A relic of civilization. Not many still carried those. The networks were dead, Wi-Fi was gone, and power outages meant charging was almost impossible. Unless you had a generator or were lucky enough to scavenge a power bank, phones were useless luxuries.

Young-il still had one himself, but it had been long dead. He kept it only in the faint hope that someday, when electricity returned, he could charge it again. So, did this man have a way to keep it charged? Or had he just hoarded his battery?

Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was what came next.

Baek opened the gallery and held the screen toward the door crack.

“This zombie.”

“…Hard to see. What is that, a smudge?”

He squinted, but the image was too poor to make anything out. Maybe the brightness had been lowered to save battery, but the real problem was the photo itself—it was blurry, the figure just a smudged silhouette.

“Well, it was taken while moving… Ah, yes, this one’s no good, even I admit it. But I do have a clearer shot.”

Then you should’ve shown that one first.

Baek scrolled quickly, searching for a better photo. Young-il waited, scowling, for him to finally produce something useful.

But in the meantime, unease stirred in him. If these had been normal people, he’d have thought they were searching for family. It made sense—many had fled from zombified relatives they couldn’t bring themselves to kill, hoping against hope to one day find them cured. Now that such a thing was possible, searching wasn’t strange.

But if these men were hardliners among the bikers… that was different.

At last, Baek found what he wanted. Smiling, he held up the screen.

“This person.”

“…This person?”

“Yes. Not my family or anyone I know, but someone I absolutely need to find.”

Young-il forced himself not to glance toward the kitchen, staring instead at the screen.

The face was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Twisted with fury, eyes burning as if glaring at some unseen foe—it was the kind of look common among the infected, so not strange in itself.

But given who it was, the sight was jarring. In all the time Young-il had known him, the boy had never once worn such an expression.

“I hear his name is Lee Rowon. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“……”

“This man killed my lover. And probably killed a number of my comrades here as well.”

“……”

“That’s why I must find him. Have you seen him?”

Young-il’s tongue felt like stone. He couldn’t tell whether he should speak at all—whether he even could.

A stranger’s voice from beyond the front door dropped a bomb. Proof of reality he desperately wanted to ignore.

Rowon nearly dropped the kitchen knife in his hand. He had meant to use it if a gang of looters tried to break in, but now he was more afraid he might end up stabbing his own throat with it. Not because he wanted to die—just because his breath caught in his chest, his throat so unbearably tight.

He couldn’t breathe properly. Whether it was from lack of oxygen or just some instinctive flight from reality, his lungs refused to work. He wanted to lie, to say he hadn’t heard a thing because the voice was too far, too muffled, too indistinct. But he had heard every word.

I killed people too.

He had never truly believed his hands were clean. Memory or no memory, he hadn’t thought he could deny what was obvious. Of course he had killed. He must have torn into some stranger’s guts, wandered the streets with raw flesh clamped in his jaws. He knew that much.

But having the proof shoved right in his face was something else. There was a vast difference between vaguely assuming he had killed someone, and being confronted by the lover or family of the dead, demanding his guilt.

You may have forgotten, but they haven’t.

If someone else remembers, then you can’t erase it, no matter how much you want to forget. If there is someone demanding you pay for it, you can’t make it vanish. Just like the man standing now at the door.

I have to go out.

His grip on the knife tightened. He had no idea what he would do once he stepped outside, but the impulse burned vivid in his mind. Could he slash someone’s throat in a single strike? Judging by the voices, there were several people out there, but if he cut down their leader first, maybe things would become manageable.

But the storm of emotion in his head was too strong to allow rational thought. If the one who accuses you disappears, then so does the crime. Like a fool who hides his head and insists he is invisible, but in this broken world where the most basic functions have collapsed, even such foolish logic could hold weight.

If he wiped them out, then no one would remain to accuse him of killings committed as a zombie. A temporary fix, maybe—but even if he’d killed dozens, there might be dozens more who’d come seeking revenge. Perhaps the families of the dead would show up to demand his blood.

Even so, it was fine. The world wasn’t fully restored yet; in the meantime, he could erase every trace. Kill each pursuer, bury the bodies, deny everything when accused. That way, he could erase it all. Erase those who condemned him, crush the guilt inside. If he just did that, then—

But at that moment, the man listening at the door answered flatly.

“Never seen him.”

“……!”

That single line froze the madness raging in Rowon’s head. Like snapping awake from a nightmare that had been dragging him down in drowsy waves.

[You say you haven’t?]

“Well, maybe I did see him once, but I don’t remember at all. And why should I? Survivors, maybe—but who bothers memorizing the faces of zombies?”

[Fair enough. Still, no matter how little you care about the outside world, you’d think you’d remember the face of a dangerous zombie or two.]

“How the hell would I know if some zombie I never saw was dangerous or not? Anyway, I don’t know. Haven’t seen him.”

The man lied smoothly, not even licking his lips. Though Rowon couldn’t see his face, his voice was so calm it betrayed no hint of tension. Only then did Rowon realize how absurd his earlier thoughts had been. As long as that man was there, as long as he saw and heard everything, any half-mad strategy Rowon had been plotting was meaningless.

No—there was an even bigger problem. No matter what—was he really planning to kill people? Feasibility aside, how could he even think of something like that?

What the hell was I just thinking?

The thought was so horrific that Rowon felt a chill crawl up his spine. He clapped his free hand over his mouth. His legs trembled so badly he couldn’t take a single step forward.

Finally, a shred of reality took hold in his mind—he must not go outside. If he did, nothing good would happen. Worse, if Rowon showed himself now, he would only make the man at the door look like a liar.

While Rowon wavered, unable to move, the man continued speaking.

“And besides, as you can see, my leg’s a wreck. I can hardly go outside these days. Took a bad hit not too long ago, too.”

[For someone who can’t get around, the hallway was full of water buckets. This supply didn’t even last long—did you really haul all that with that leg of yours?]

“That’s from last time. Couldn’t gather much this round. I’m already depressed about it—what, you here to rub it in?”

The voice outside sounded suspicious, but the man didn’t care, spinning out lies as calmly as if they were nothing. He said he was the only one living here. That as a zombie he had killed countless people, and as a man he had never seen, never known, the trash of a youth who had once assaulted him.

Was he… covering for him? But why?

Rowon, stunned, could only gasp for breath as the voice outside let out a regretful sigh.

[…Unfortunate. Still, with supply runs becoming more frequent, better days will come. If you haven’t seen him, then nothing we can do.]

Thankfully, the voice sounded ready to withdraw. Perhaps they had decided they’d pressed enough.

[Then we’ll return another time. According to our information, that zombie is likely still in the area, so be cautious.]

“These days they spray a lot of cure gas. Wouldn’t he have turned back human by now?”

[Perhaps. But you never know. At night, there are still some zombies roaming, trying to tear into people. A little gas here and there doesn’t mean they’ve all vanished.]

The words made sense, but the voice itself didn’t sound convinced. Almost as if he wanted to believe Rowon was still a zombie—wanted him not to be human.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

[Well then. Sorry for disturbing you.]

The front door shut, the lock clicked. Multiple footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the roar of motorcycle engines fading into the distance.

Rowon collapsed where he stood. The man, frowning, stared at the door before turning to look straight at him. Rowon stared back, dazed. He should have said thank you, but his tongue felt stiff, his soul still elsewhere. With a clatter, the knife finally slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor.

What is he thinking right now?

Now the man knew too. That Rowon was a killer. Of course, he must have suspected before, but this was the first time he’d had it confirmed outright.

Would he mock him? Say they were both murderers, but Rowon had pretended to be clean? Or would he regret it—wish he hadn’t lied for him, think maybe he should have let the truth spill instead of covering it up?

The thought gnawed at him—that maybe it would’ve been better if he’d stepped out just now. Not to kill them, like his earlier crazed impulse had screamed, but the opposite. To have pressed the knife to his own throat and ended it all right there….

But then the man dropped a dry remark that snapped Rowon back to himself.

“Hey. Let me check two things.”

His eyes were calm, steady. He looked as if he’d just shooed away an annoying salesman, not as if he’d shielded Rowon from hunters. No resentment, no reproach. That steadiness settled something in Rowon’s chest.

“…Yes?”

“Don’t make that face. I’m not here to interrogate you. First, do you know that guy? The one outside—called himself Baek Seonghyeon or whatever.”

It was stranger that he claimed not to be questioning him, but his expression didn’t look like a lie. Since he didn’t know the man, Rowon shook his head. The man only frowned, puzzled.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Really don’t know him at all? Never seen his face anywhere? No, of course you haven’t—you wouldn’t. Still, no name, no voice that rings a bell?”

“Nothing comes to mind. That person must have come because of something I did while I was a zombie, right? If that’s the case, then I can’t remember.”

If the man’s words were true, Rowon had killed that stranger’s lover. Which meant it made more sense not to remember. Yet the older man made a low, dissatisfied sound.

“Hmm. That part fits, but something still bothers me. Anyway—second question. Did you lose your wallet? To be precise, do you still have your ID card?”

The first question’s intent was obvious, but this one caught him off guard. His wallet? Now?

Rowon rummaged through his discarded pants and found it. Inside, the cards and his resident registration card were intact. He’d thought he might have lost them, but surprisingly, everything was still there.

“My ID’s here.”

“…So you didn’t lose it. Great. That just makes things messier.”

It sounded almost as if things would have been simpler if he had lost it. The man spat the words out, then sank into the sweltering living room. Despite the heat, Rowon chose to sit beside him instead of fleeing to the cooler bedroom.

Clearly, the man had pieced something together during the chaos.

“…Why are you asking me this all of a sudden?”

“Think about it. How the hell did that bastard know your name?”

“…My name?”

“You can’t exactly trade introductions with a zombie. They don’t stop gnashing their teeth mid-charge to tell you what they’re called. So how’d he know it?”

Come to think of it, it was strange. That stranger had spoken Rowon’s name too naturally. A detailed description, a quirk, even a scar—that would’ve made sense. But going straight to his name? That was wrong.

Only then did Rowon understand the question about his ID. If he’d lost it, then maybe they’d picked it up somewhere and learned his name. But that wasn’t the case.

“To be honest, at first I didn’t even realize that photo was you. Your expression was so different. Only when he said your name was Lee Rowon did I connect the two.”

“…Photo?”

“Yeah. He showed me a picture on his smartphone. Your face was a sight, let me tell you.”

The man chuckled, tugging at Rowon’s cheek. It didn’t hurt, but it felt like mockery all the same, and Rowon leaned back slightly.

A photo. He hadn’t seen it himself, but it made sense. A picture taken while he was a zombie wouldn’t resemble him much now.

Either way, it was a suspicious situation. How had that man learned Rowon’s name? If not from his ID card, then what other means? Or maybe…

While Rowon wrestled with the thought, the man furrowed his brow as if to sort through his own and spoke again.

“And another thing.”

“Yes?”

“Everything about that bastard’s behavior was shady. Why introduce himself right away, on a first meeting? And why skip all the other apartments around here to come straight to this one?”

“That… that could’ve been by chance…?”

“Let’s say it was chance that he came here. But the problem is what happened next. Doesn’t it strike you as strange? I can’t be the only one living in this complex, so why did he only question me and then leave?”

“……!”

“He didn’t even bother with the upper floors, let alone going over to Building B or C. But no—he only stopped here. And then he left behind that ridiculous line about coming back later.”

As if this one apartment had been his only target from the start. The man didn’t say that outright, but Rowon immediately grasped what he meant.

Whatever the route, that intruder seemed to know both Rowon’s name and where he lived. If his wallet hadn’t been sitting intact in his pocket, Rowon might have really believed his ID had been stolen.

Wasn’t this dangerous? If they had his address, they could circle the area, watching to see if Rowon was here or not. And if things went wrong, even the man who lived here now could end up dragged into danger….

But then the man chuckled and patted Rowon’s shoulder.

“Don’t get so scared. They haven’t caught on yet, so it’ll be fine.”

“…What?”

“Let’s just leave the barricade as it is. It’s so flimsy anyway that a few kicks would knock it down. In this suffocating heat we need some place for air to get in. From now on, though, you stay in your room. The barricade there is still sturdy enough for a holdout.”

As he muttered this, the man kept glancing toward the bedroom window. He looked worried someone might be peeking in from outside—that someone might spot Rowon.

The sight left Rowon unsettled. The man’s attitude was completely different from before. Up until now he had treated Rowon with caution, even fear, but now…

“No matter how off that bastard seemed, if you hide properly they won’t find you. I’ll keep watch at night, so don’t worry.”

Was he saying he’d protect him? Rowon felt dazed. It was as if, all of a sudden, their roles had been reversed.

He stiffened his neck and put on a front, but in truth, Young-il was sweating cold sweat so much that it made his recent shower meaningless.

His eyes kept darting toward the bedroom and the front door without him realizing it. It felt like he could still hear the sound of motorcycles circling back beyond the wide-open window. Someone who hadn’t left might have heard their voices and at any moment would knock on the front door and call the others over.

‘Will it really be okay?’

He had boasted and told Rowon not to worry, but the truth was he was rattled. As he’d said earlier to Rowon himself, there was a high chance that man not only knew Rowon’s name but also his exact residence. Which meant they wouldn’t give up easily.

Even if that Baek Seong-hyun guy believed Young-il’s flimsy lie, he and his crew would keep circling the area, waiting for the young man who had returned to his senses after being hit by the treatment gas to come home.

They would have to be careful for a while. As he wiped at the sweat constantly running down his face—whether from nerves or from the heat—he heard a faint, weary murmur.

“…But still, you didn’t hand me over.”

“What?”

“I mean it. If you had just handed me to them, things would’ve been easier for you.”

Young-il frowned and glared at him. The brat never could say anything nicely. Rowon ignored the look, bent down, and picked up the kitchen knife from the floor. A faint mark had been left on the spotless flooring where it had dropped.

“What the hell are you talking about.”

“It’s true. They came for me, not you. They probably didn’t care about you at all.”

“Even so, who just hands someone over like that? You’ve got some nerve. How do you know what they’d have done to you, acting so casual about it?”

Rowon’s face, as he put the knife back in its place, looked strangely detached, as if stripped of any sense of reality. It was as though, even after hearing that he had killed people, even after hearing that countless others were out there hunting him for revenge, he didn’t feel a thing.

Was he really unaware of the situation he was in? Or did he know everything but simply felt nothing, so he looked like this? He was still young, at an age when people thought themselves fearless, but even so…

“Isn’t it actually the worse choice? If they find out you lied, they might come after you too.”

But the boy’s words weren’t entirely wrong. If you looked at it strictly from Young-il’s perspective, it would have been safer to just hand Rowon over to Baek Seong-hyun. Then they would’ve been satisfied and left him alone.

And besides, something else had struck Young-il during that conversation. That man—on the surface he looked mild and courteous, but there had been something dangerous in his air. Not unlike Rowon, but in a different way. Rowon’s madness could be explained by once having been a zombie. But Baek Seong-hyun, who had probably survived the zombie disaster with his sanity intact—what in the world could have filled him with so much hate?

Getting on the wrong side of someone like that could only spell trouble. If he could dig up Rowon’s personal details, what was stopping him from digging up a regular person’s? And even without that, he could easily stir up trouble by calling on his gang.

And yet, even knowing all this, Young-il didn’t want to send this boy away.

“And you think I’d be safe, then?”

“…What?”

“If you start recognizing personal vendettas for murders and crimes committed during the outbreak, you think I’m any cleaner? You think I’d come out of that looking innocent?”

It was, admittedly, a petty reason. It wasn’t so much about protecting Rowon as it was about protecting his own conscience. If he acknowledged the idea that avenging a murderer was legitimate, then what about him, Park Young-il, who had killed the boy’s parents? Wouldn’t he also have to pay the price?

Of course, Young-il could argue self-defense. But then Rowon could just as well claim diminished responsibility on account of being diseased. And in the end, revenge didn’t care about reasons or excuses.

The only thing that mattered was having a target to unleash it on. Just like Young-il had, for a brief time, poured out his rage over his wife’s death onto Rowon.

‘If you start acknowledging revenge like that, then in the end, I’m no different.’

Rowon hadn’t taken revenge on Young-il. On the first day he had done something outrageous, and earlier, he had lost control and lashed out, but aside from that he had been, in his own way, cooperative.

So, wasn’t it better to make the choice that benefitted both of them? Like it or not, they were living in the same house now, stuck in the same boat.

The boy stared at him in disbelief, but Young-il only coughed awkwardly as if nothing was wrong. And besides, there was another reason for his decision.

“…And honestly, who knows if that bastard was even telling the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“That guy claims you killed his lover and countless others, but where’s the proof? All he has is his own word, doesn’t he?”

Young-il said this with a shrug. For the first time, the young man’s expression, which had always been unreadable, creased into a frown.

“Then… do you think that man was lying?”

“It doesn’t have to be a lie. It could be a mistake. Maybe he happened to see you nearby and jumped to the wrong conclusion. It’s not like they’re police—of course they could make mistakes.”

That was true. The claim that Rowon had killed Baek Seong-hyun’s lover and his companions was only their side of the story. All they had shown was a handful of photos with Rowon’s face—none of them actual murder scenes. In other words, no evidence.

“Until they come up with real proof that you actually killed someone, just stay hidden. The world is starting to stabilize. Right now it’s a mess, like some apocalypse, but sooner or later the police and the courts will get back on their feet. Sorting out right and wrong can wait until then.”

Rowon quietly nodded as if in agreement. No matter how detached he acted, he wasn’t foolish enough to risk his life over something he couldn’t even be sure he had done. Since the young man seemed convinced, Young-il left it at that.

But there was one more reason Young-il couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

‘Anyway… the way that man knew this brat’s name and address… I almost hope it’s just because of his persistence.’

Perhaps it was the victory of sheer spite and obsession. Even without an ID card, it wasn’t impossible to dig up Rowon’s information. Maybe someone recognized him when they showed the photo around, or maybe they happened to meet another resident of the same apartment building who gave away his address. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Yet another possibility wriggled in Young-il’s mind.

‘A personal vendetta. Baek Seong-hyun and Lee Rowon already knew each other.’

Of course, it was only a possibility. Rowon had reacted as though he didn’t know the man at all. But there was no guarantee that Baek Seong-hyun was the only one lying.

If Rowon and Baek Seong-hyun had known each other, then it wouldn’t be strange for Baek to know Rowon’s name and address. Maybe Rowon had his own reasons for not telling Young-il the truth and just feigned ignorance.

And even if that wasn’t the case…

‘This kid, Lee Rowon, he seems desperate to forget something.’

Forget, and everything is solved. Erase it, and it all becomes nothing. The words Rowon had muttered like nonsense now struck Young-il with a different weight.

At first, it had seemed like mere denial of his zombie past. But what if it had never been about that? What if it wasn’t just about lying, but about turning away from something crucial out of sheer survival instinct?

‘Well, maybe I’m overthinking it.’

This wasn’t some movie or drama. It was only his imagination, only speculation—that’s what he told himself as his vacant eyes drifted toward the sky growing steadily darker.

The sun was setting. The evening sky was already glowing an ominous, blood-red hue.