Hugo lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. His body trembled, though he wasn’t cold. He was alive. Again.

  “What kind of bullshit is this?” he muttered, his voice hoarse. His throat ached like he had been screaming, but he didn’t remember doing so. He lifted his shaking hands, flexing his fingers as if expecting them to be broken, crushed—anything. But they weren’t. He was whole, untouched.

  His heart pounded against his ribs as his mind raced through the absurdity of it all. “Is this hell?” he whispered, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “What kind of B-series horror movie am I trapped in?”

  The memory of his fall hit him like a sledgehammer. The sensation of the air rushing past him, the gut-wrenching moment he knew he had missed the dumpster, and the agony—unimaginable, all-consuming—when his body shattered on the concrete. He had died. He knew he had. There was no mistaking that pain, that finality. And yet, here he was.

  His phone lay beside him. He grabbed it with unsteady hands, his thumb pressing against the screen. June 12, 10 AM.

  The same day. Again.

  A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. It was an ugly sound, bitter and laced with disbelief. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to suppress the rising panic, but it clawed at him from beneath the surface.

  He rolled onto his side, curling in on himself, his breaths shaky. "No, no, no, no," he murmured, his fingers gripping his hair. "This isn’t happening."

  But it was. And he had no idea what the hell to do next.

  After some time, he forced himself to sit up. The panic still clawed at his chest, but lying there, paralyzed by fear, wasn’t going to change anything. He exhaled sharply and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, but he needed to move.

  He began pacing in circles around his small living room, his mind racing. He tried to piece everything together, recalling every moment that had led to his death. He had decided to leave his apartment, knowing he needed food. He had gone into the old lady’s apartment first, searching for supplies. He found the soup, the crackers, the cat food. Then—

  His breath hitched. The noise. The door. The old woman.

  His pacing slowed as he ran a hand through his hair. He had fought her, tried to stab her in the head like in the movies. But he had missed. He had barely gotten away, only to end up on the roof. And then… the fall.

  A shudder ran through him as the memory of his broken body on the pavement resurfaced. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the thought. What the hell was happening to him?

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think. He couldn't just stay here and wait to starve. He had to do better this time. If he was going to step outside again, he needed to be prepared.

  His key. The thought hit him like a jolt. Last time, he had forgotten it, and it had cost him. Without hesitation, he grabbed his keyring from the counter and shoved it into his pocket.

  His shoes. He wasn’t about to stumble around barefoot and slam his toes into furniture again. He quickly slipped them on, feeling slightly more grounded with each step.

  His knife—his prized Japanese blade—was a must. He retrieved it and secured it in his belt. But slashing alone wasn’t enough. He needed something to bash with, something that could put distance between him and whatever came at him.

  His eyes scanned the apartment. There had to be something useful, something sturdy. He didn’t have a baseball bat or anything obvious, but there had to be something. His gaze landed on a heavy metal pan resting on the stove. He walked over, picking it up and testing its weight in his hands. Solid. It wasn’t ideal, but it could do some real damage if he swung it hard enough. He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. His first instinct was to reach for a kitchen tool—professional deformation, he guessed. Even in a nightmare scenario like this, his mind still worked like a chef's.

  What else could he bring? He needed his flashlight—definitely. His backpack too, in case he found anything worth carrying. But what about protection? He needed something to shield himself, at least his arms. A makeshift barrier against bites or scratches.

  He had never been much of a sports guy, so he didn’t own any protective gear. But then he remembered something from a movie—taping old magazines to his shins and forearms as improvised armor. Only problem? He didn’t have any magazines.

  His eyes narrowed as he thought back to his previous attempt at scavenging. The old lady’s apartment. He distinctly remembered seeing a stack of magazines sitting on her living room table. If he could get to them, he might just have a way to protect himself. But that was for later.

  He looked back at his equipment with a sense of dejection. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. The knife, the pan, his keys, and a flashlight. It felt woefully inadequate against the horrors lurking outside his apartment. But at least this time, he was thinking ahead.

  He had multiple objectives now. First and foremost—food. He wouldn’t last long without it, and hunger made people reckless. Then, better weapons. His knife was sharp, but he needed something with reach, something that didn’t require getting up close. Protection was next; duct tape was a survivalist’s best friend, and in an apocalypse, it was practically gold. Reinforcing his arms and legs with makeshift armor could be the difference between life and death. And, of course, toilet paper. It wasn’t a matter of survival, but in a world that had gone to hell, small comforts mattered.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Every decision counted now, and he wasn’t going to waste another chance.

  It was still early. Earlier than last time he had tried, which meant there would be more daylight. That gave him an advantage. Light meant visibility, and visibility meant a better chance at avoiding danger.

  He knew now that the roof was not a good option. It had been a death trap, and relying on it as an escape route again was out of the question. He needed a better alternative, something safer, something that wouldn’t corner him like last time.

  His eyes drifted toward the balcony. An idea formed. He could make a backup escape route—something that wouldn’t leave him trapped. He hurried to his bedroom and yanked the sheets off his bed, then rummaged through his closet for more. He began knotting them together, pulling each knot tight, testing the strength. After several minutes, he had a makeshift rope. It wasn’t perfect, but in an emergency, it could let him climb down to his neighbor’s balcony below.

  Securing one end tightly to the balcony railing, he gave it a few strong tugs. It held firm. It would have to do.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned his attention to his front door. Last time, when he had fled, he had nothing to slow the undead down. If he needed to get back inside in a hurry, he needed time—seconds could make all the difference.

  He scanned the apartment for something heavy. His gaze landed on a sturdy wooden dresser. Grunting, he pushed it across the floor, inching it closer to the door. It wasn’t a perfect barricade, but if he had to run back in with zombies on his heels, shoving it into place could buy him some time.

  With his escape plan set, Hugo exhaled, hands on his hips. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was better than last time. He was learning.

  But the thought lingered in the back of his mind—what if he didn’t come back again? What if this was his only second chance? The memory of his last death, the unbearable pain, the way his body had shattered on the pavement, was still too fresh. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistakes. He had no intention of testing whether he could come back again. Dying once had been more than enough.

  It was time to go. He steeled himself and moved toward the door, slipping his flashlight into his pocket. There was more daylight now than last time, making it less necessary for the moment. As he reached for the handle, a thought struck him—Apartment 302 had its door open when he last checked. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now he realized that all the other doors were likely locked, just like his had been when he forgot his keys. That meant he didn’t really have a choice—302 was the only apartment he could loot for supplies right now.

  He opened his door and cautiously peered into the corridor. It was silent—too silent. The hallway stretched out before him, dimly lit by the weak daylight filtering through the cracks of distant windows. There was no movement, no sound. But he knew better than to let his guard down.

  The zombies were close. Last time, they had come down on him frighteningly fast, giving him little time to react. Just because he didn’t see them now didn’t mean they weren’t lurking nearby, waiting for the slightest noise to set them off. He took a slow breath, steadying himself. Every step from here had to be deliberate.

  He stepped inside Apartment 302, careful to make as little noise as possible. The scent of rot still lingered, but he forced himself to push past it. His mind raced as he considered his next move. Should he start looting first, grab whatever supplies he could before dealing with the zombie? Or should he take care of it now, while he had the element of surprise?

  His eyes flickered toward the bedroom door, slightly ajar. He could just close it, trap whatever was inside, and buy himself more time. But was that really the safest option?

  His pulse hammered in his ears as he took a cautious step forward, moving as slowly as possible. Every movement felt exaggerated, his senses on high alert. The air inside the apartment felt thick, weighed down by the putrid stench of decay. Grimacing, he pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose, trying to block out the worst of it. It barely helped. The sour, cloying scent of rot seeped through the fabric, making his stomach churn, but it was better than nothing. He pressed his nose against the fabric, forcing himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth to keep from gagging.

  Reaching the door, he extended a shaky hand toward it. The wood was cool under his fingertips, slightly damp from the humidity in the sealed-off room. He swallowed hard. One wrong move, one creak too loud, and he could wake whatever was inside. His fingers curled around the edge, and he began to ease the door shut.

  It moved silently for the first few inches, but then—

  A soft groan of wood against the frame made him freeze. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body rigid. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, waiting, listening. Nothing. No movement inside.

  He exhaled slowly and resumed pushing, millimeter by millimeter, every nerve in his body on edge. The latch was just within reach. One more push—

  Click.

  The door was shut.

  Hugo stepped back, resisting the overwhelming urge to let out a relieved sigh. His body was stiff, his shoulders tense with anticipation. But nothing happened. No sudden bang against the door, no inhuman scream.

  For now, he had locked death behind that door. The real question was, for how long?

  He shook off the lingering tension and turned his focus to looting. First things first—armor. He moved toward the living room table, where he had previously seen the magazines. Stacking a few of the thickest ones, he quickly stuffed them into his backpack. If he could find duct tape later, he’d be able to strap them to his arms and legs as makeshift protection.

  Next, food. He retraced his steps from before, heading toward the kitchen. The soup and crackers were exactly where he had found them last time, sitting on top of the fridge. He grabbed them and shoved them into his backpack without hesitation. He knew food wouldn’t last forever, but it was enough to keep him going for now.

  As he crouched down to check the lower cabinets, his eyes landed on the bag of cat food tucked under the sink. The sight of it triggered something in his mind—an unfinished thought from before.

  The cat.

  His breath caught as he realized he had completely forgotten about it. Last time, the cat had appeared behind him after he heard noises from the corridor. But now… was it even still around?

  Was it even worth looking for? He had always preferred dogs, but that wasn’t the point. Right now, he felt alone, and maybe—just maybe—some company could soothe the gnawing isolation creeping into his mind. The idea of another living thing nearby, something that wasn’t trying to kill him, felt oddly comforting.

  Decision made, he adjusted his backpack and prepared to look for the cat.