The cat’s fur bristled as it let out a low, guttural hiss, its eyes locked on something behind Hugo. His stomach tightened. Slowly, he turned around, his flashlight trembling slightly in his grip.

  The old woman was moving.

  She had been lying on her bed, rotting in the oppressive darkness, but now she was on her feet, shambling toward him. Her skin was a sickly gray, sagging in places where decay had begun to take its toll, with patches of darkened flesh peeling away to expose yellowed bone underneath. Her nightgown, once pale blue, was now stained with dark, crusted streaks of dried blood and fluids that had seeped from her decomposing body.

  Her milky, unseeing eyes stared past him, sunken deep into their sockets, surrounded by blackened veins that stretched like cracks through her face. Her mouth hung slightly open, revealing gums that had receded, exposing long, uneven teeth. A thin, wet sound escaped her lips, like air struggling to pass through rotted lungs.

  The putrid scent of decay clung to her, thick and suffocating, filling the room with the undeniable stench of death. Her body moved with unnatural purpose, drawn by the sound of his voice, as if the last remnant of whatever she had been in life had faded, leaving only hunger behind.

  Hugo took an instinctive step back, bumping into the counter. The impact sent the bowl of candy toppling to the floor, shattering upon impact. The sharp crack of ceramic breaking echoed through the room, followed by the scattering of hard candies skidding across the tiles. The cat let out another hiss before darting away, disappearing into the shadows of the apartment. His pulse pounded in his ears as he tightened his grip on the flashlight, the only thing separating him from the horror advancing toward him.

  Hugo knew he had to act fast. His knife was still strapped to his belt, but getting close enough to use it was a risk he wasn’t sure he wanted to take. His only advantage was speed. He had to get out before she reached him.

  The door. He turned his head just enough to glance at it. It was still closed, but the thought of opening it sent another wave of dread through him. The hallway outside was pitch black. If he made too much noise, the other things lurking in the apartment complex would hear. He was trapped between two dangers—the undead inside and the ones surely waiting beyond the door.

  The old woman groaned, the sound gurgling deep within her ruined throat, and lurched forward with sudden urgency.

  Hugo had no time to think. He had seen enough zombie movies to know the rule—go for the head. His hand darted to his belt, fingers closing around the handle of his knife. With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward and aimed for her face.

  But he missed.

  The blade glanced off her cheek, slicing through rotting flesh but failing to do any real damage. She lunged at him in response, her bony fingers clawing at his arm as they tumbled to the ground in a chaotic struggle. The flashlight clattered against the floor, spinning wildly and casting frantic shadows across the walls.

  Hugo gritted his teeth and thrashed, kicking with all his strength. He managed to twist free before she could sink her teeth into him, rolling away just as she reached for him again. He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering, and bolted for the door.

  His hands fumbled with the handle, but in his desperation, he yanked it open and threw himself into the dark hallway beyond. He didn’t dare look back. He just ran.

  The hallway was pitch black. His flashlight was still on the floor in the old lady’s apartment, spinning in the darkness, but he had no time to retrieve it. Stumbling forward, he felt the walls with desperate hands, trying to orient himself as his pulse pounded in his ears.

  Reaching his door, he fumbled for the handle, yanking at it—locked. A sinking dread gripped his chest. He had forgotten. The door locked itself when it shut, and his keys were still inside. It was a rookie mistake, one he couldn’t afford in a world like this. His own stupidity sent a wave of frustration through him, but there was no time to dwell on it now.

  A guttural snarl echoed from the left.

  His breath caught as he turned his head. Shadows moved in the corridor, but the dim emergency exit sign at the far end provided just enough light to reveal the figures rushing toward him. More zombies. The noise had drawn them, and now they were closing in fast.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Panic shot through him like electricity. He turned on his heel and bolted for the stairwell. His feet slammed against the floor, every step sending jolts of pain up his legs, but he didn’t stop. The growls behind him grew louder, the sound of rotting feet slapping against the floor gaining on him.

  His mind raced as he ran. The hallway was too dangerous; his apartment was locked. The only place left was the roof. If he could get up there, maybe he could buy himself some time. Maybe there was a way down from the other side—anything was better than getting trapped down here with the dead.

  As he neared the stairwell, a sudden snarl erupted from the darkness to his right. A zombie lunged at him from a side door, its rotting hands reaching for his throat. Instinct took over. Hugo threw his weight forward, shoving the undead creature with all his strength. It staggered back, colliding with the wall as he stumbled past it, his foot barely missing a loose floorboard that could have sent him sprawling.

  His heart pounded as he crashed through the stairwell door, taking the steps two at a time. He could hear them behind him, stumbling, but relentless. His lungs burned as he climbed higher, his muscles screaming for relief, but he couldn’t stop—not now.

  The door to the roof was just ahead. He could make it.

  He lunged forward, shoving the heavy metal door open with his shoulder. It gave way, and he stumbled onto the rooftop, gasping for breath. Without thinking, he spun and grabbed the door, slamming it shut. The silence that followed was deafening.

  For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Hugo had a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the door, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts, his muscles burning. The rooftop was eerily still. For a brief, fleeting second, a sliver of hope crept into his mind—maybe, just maybe, they would stop chasing him. Maybe the dead would lose interest and drift away.

  His muscles ached from the relentless sprint, and his lungs burned as if they had been set on fire. He had never been good with cardio, never had the endurance for this kind of exertion. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had run that fast or that hard. His body screamed for rest, but there was no time to relax. He had survived—for now.

  For a moment, there was only silence. Then the pounding started.

  The door shuddered with every hit, the dead determined to reach him. Hugo was still pushing against the door, his entire body straining to keep it shut. If he let go, even for a second, they would be on him. More and more undead were piling against it, their combined weight making it nearly impossible to hold back.

  His eyes darted around the rooftop, desperate for anything to barricade the door with—but there was nothing. Just gravel and the vast open sky stretching above the city. No furniture, no pipes, nothing that could buy him even a few seconds.

  His mind raced. He was panting hard, his muscles already burning. The summer night air was warm, but a chill ran through him, not from the temperature but from the sheer terror of the moment. It was June, just past 8 PM, and the golden hues of the sunset had given way to deep blue shadows creeping over the skyline. Under any other circumstances, the evening would have been beautiful. But beauty didn’t matter now. Survival did.

  His options were bleak—stay and be torn apart or jump four floors down. His stomach twisted at the thought. The alley below was unforgiving concrete, but there were ledges, balconies a few floors down. If he aimed right, if he was lucky, maybe—just maybe—he could survive the fall.

  A violent slam against the door jolted him back to reality. The door burst open with a deafening crash, and he was thrown aside by the sheer force of bodies pushing through. He hit the gravel hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

  Zombies spilled onto the rooftop, their weight causing them to stumble and collapse over one another in a writhing heap. There was no time to think—only to move.

  Scrambling to his feet, Hugo bolted toward the closest ledge, his breath ragged, heart hammering in his chest. As he skidded to a stop, dread shot through him like ice. He had chosen the wrong side.

  There was nothing but open air between him and the hard pavement below. No balconies, no fire escapes—only a single large garbage container on the street far beneath him.

  A cold sweat broke out on his skin. His body trembled as he stood at the edge of the flat rooftop, trying to summon the courage to jump. He had no other option. But as he peered over the edge, his stomach twisted in an entirely different way. Heights. He had always been afraid of heights. Just looking down made his knees feel weak, his breath shaky. The idea of jumping sent waves of nausea through him, but the alternative—being torn apart—was far worse.

  Then, before he could react, a rotten hand grabbed his shoulder. He barely had time to twist before another shoved him hard. He felt the ground disappear beneath his feet.

  The world spun. His stomach lurched. He flailed in the air, his arms grasping at nothing. He had no time to aim—no control.

  He felt the ground hit hard.

  Agony exploded through his body. He had missed the garbage container entirely. The impact sent a sharp, unbearable pain through his limbs, a sickening crunch reverberating through his skull. He knew instantly—bones had shattered, organs had ruptured. The worst pain imaginable consumed him, drowning out every other sensation.

  He gasped, his breath coming in short, gurgling bursts. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic. He managed only two shallow, ragged breaths before his consciousness began to slip away. No flashes of his life. No comforting light at the end of a tunnel. Just the cold, unyielding embrace of concrete, and a body wracked with agony.

  Hugo died that night.

  Suddenly, he jolted awake in his apartment, his entire body drenched in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his chest. The pain—the unimaginable agony of his shattered bones—still lingered, phantom echoes coursing through his limbs. He clutched at his ribs, expecting to feel broken pieces beneath his fingers, but there was nothing. He was whole.

  His stomach twisted violently, nausea hitting him like a punch. He lurched forward, gagging, but his stomach was empty. Nothing came out. He remained slumped on the bed, shaking uncontrollably, his mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened.

  Minutes passed. Long, agonizing minutes filled with silent tears and shock. Slowly, his breathing steadied, and his mind clawed its way back to rationality. Was it a dream? It didn’t feel like one. It was too vivid, too real—the sensation of falling, the unbearable pain, the way the cold concrete had swallowed him whole. That wasn’t something a dream could replicate.

  Hands trembling, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, casting a faint glow in the dim room. Battery: 10%. The same as before.

  His gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, the same morning sunlight bathed the city. The streets were eerily still, just as they had been before. Nothing had changed.

  Swallowing hard, he turned his head, scanning his apartment. The empty wrappers and instant ramen soup containers were exactly where he had left them. The mess, the dim lighting—it was all identical. Every single detail.

  His breathing quickened as he looked down at his phone again, as if expecting the numbers to change. But they didn’t.

  June 12, 10 AM.

  The same day. Again.