The apartment was deathly silent in the aftermath of the struggle. Hugo’s chest heaved, his arm burned from the scratch, and his hands trembled as he gripped the blood-smeared pan. He had won, but at what cost?

  Then he heard it.

  The distant echo of shuffling. A low, dragging sound coming from beyond the walls. The building, which had once seemed eerily quiet, was waking up.

  The noise he had made—it had been too much.

  Panic surged through him as he stumbled toward the door. His heart pounded against his ribs as he hesitated, glancing toward the stairwell at the end of the hallway. Up or down?

  His instincts screamed at him to go up. The roof was familiar. It had an open view, an escape. But he knew better now. The roof was a death trap, a dead end that had already killed him once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Then he heard them—zombies stirring near his apartment, their heavy footsteps dragging closer. His stomach twisted. He couldn’t go back that way. That left only one option—down.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced his legs into motion, stepping out into the hallway. The sound of shuffling was growing louder, spreading from the lower floors like a rising tide. Shadows moved at the edge of the stairwell. They were coming.

  He moved fast, ignoring the searing pain in his arm as he gripped the railing. He had already made it one floor down, but the danger was closing in from both directions. The open staircase loomed before him—wide gaps in the middle, a straight drop down. He wasn’t that high. If he had to, he could maybe jump. Every step sent a dull ache through his limbs, the adrenaline wearing off just enough to remind him of every injury he had sustained. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, his knuckles white as he clutched his makeshift weapon.

  A screech cut through the air—a wailing, unnatural sound that made his blood run cold. The first zombie appeared on the landing below, its head snapping upward, milky eyes locking onto him. Then another. And another.

  His stomach twisted. There were too many.

  He pivoted, ready to turn back, but footsteps thundered from above. His pulse spiked. More of them were coming down from the upper floors. He was sandwiched between them.

  His grip tightened around the pan. His options were shrinking fast. He could try to fight his way through, but the numbers were against him. Or he could take a risk—jump down to the next floor, take the impact, and keep running.

  His heart pounded as he edged toward the open drop. Could he make it?

  There was no time to hesitate. The pounding footsteps and screeching from above and below told him all he needed to know—if he stayed, he was dead.

  Gritting his teeth, he bent his knees and launched himself over the railing. The air rushed past him in an instant before he crashed onto the ground floor. Pain exploded through his legs as he hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact to avoid breaking anything. A sharp jolt shot up his injured arm, and he let out a strangled groan, barely stifling a scream.

  He had made it to ground level—but not unscathed. His ankle throbbed, sending sharp pain up his calf, but it wasn’t broken. He could still move.

  Pushing himself up with a grimace, he glanced back at the stairs. The zombies above shrieked as they scrambled down, their movement erratic and desperate.

  Ignoring the pain, Hugo forced himself forward, legs shaking as he pushed toward the exit. The main door was in sight, just a few more steps. He could make it. He had to.

  But his ankle had other plans.

  As he surged forward, his injured leg gave out beneath him. A sharp burst of agony shot up through his calf as he stumbled, hitting the floor hard. His palms scraped against the cold tile, his breath ragged as he struggled to get back up. No, no, no—he was so close.

  The shrieks of the undead grew louder, their relentless footsteps pounding toward him. His vision blurred with panic as he forced himself upright, limping, dragging his leg as he clawed toward the door. His fingers brushed against the metal handle—he was right there.

  Then the weight slammed into him.

  Cold, clawed hands latched onto his shoulders, dragging him back with terrifying strength. He screamed, twisting, thrashing, but more hands joined, grasping, pulling, tearing. A deafening wail filled the air—not from him, but from them.

  Pain erupted across his body as teeth sank into flesh, tearing through muscle and sinew. Agony unlike anything he had ever felt ignited every nerve, a searing fire racing through his limbs. He thrashed wildly, but the grip of the undead was unrelenting. Fingers like vices dug into his arms, holding him down as jagged teeth tore at his shoulder, his side, his legs. His own screams mixed with the guttural, ravenous snarls of the horde. The world spun, his vision flashing red. The last thing he saw was the door—just out of reach, forever out of reach. His vision darkened as blood poured from the wounds, his strength fading. The last thing he felt was the unbearable sensation of his throat being ripped open, the wet gurgle of his final breath swallowed by the cacophony of hungry screams.

  Then, nothing.

  Hugo jolted awake, gasping, his entire body trembling. His fingers dug into the fabric of the couch as his chest heaved, his lungs desperately sucking in air. For a moment, all he could hear was the echo of his own screams in his head, the phantom pain of teeth tearing into his flesh still burning in his nerves.

  But he wasn’t dying. He wasn’t on the cold floor, surrounded by gnashing jaws. He was back in his apartment. Back on his couch.

  Salem shifted beside him, his yellow eyes peering up at Hugo with quiet curiosity. The cat stretched, entirely unbothered, as if nothing had happened at all. But Hugo knew better. It had happened. He had felt it. He had died.

  Again.

  His breaths came in ragged bursts as he clutched his face, trying to ground himself in reality. How? How was this happening? The first time had been a shock, but now there was a pattern. A loop. But this time… this time, he hadn’t woken up in the morning. He had woken up exactly where he had last fallen asleep.

  His fingers twitched as he grabbed his phone, the screen lighting up. June 12. Still the same day. But the time…

  It matched when he had dozed off before heading out.

  His stomach churned, nausea rising as the realization settled over him. It wasn’t just time resetting—it was resetting to the last time he had slept. That meant every decision he made before resting mattered. Everything he did before closing his eyes would dictate what he had to work with when he woke up.

  His hands curled into fists as his breathing steadied. He was trapped in something far beyond his understanding, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that he couldn’t keep dying like this. The pain was real. The terror was real. If he was going to survive—truly survive—he needed to start thinking smarter.

  No more blind runs. No more rushing. He needed a plan.

  His mind raced as he pieced together what he knew. The zombies weren’t random—there were only a set number of them in the complex. Twenty, from what he had seen. He had locked one away, but he hadn't killed any yet. Two were still inside the apartments he had looted, meaning seventeen were still roaming freely, lurking in the halls and stairwells, waiting for the slightest noise to come for him.

  And he knew something else now—he sucked at jumping. Whatever ridiculous idea he had about action movie stunts, he needed to forget it. The pain in his ankle, the way his body had crumpled on impact—it was proof enough that he wasn’t cut out for that kind of escape. He needed a better way down, a smarter way to move through the building. He had to plan his routes, anticipate his exits. Running blindly was a death sentence.

  Salem flicked his tail and hopped onto his lap, pressing his warm body against Hugo’s stomach. The simple weight of another living thing grounded him just enough to swallow back the fear still clawing at his throat.

  "Alright," he muttered, running a shaking hand through his hair. "Let’s figure this out."

  His mind kept spinning, working through his options. He had four apartments per floor to work with. He had looted one—the old lady’s apartment—but the other still had two zombies inside. He hadn’t touched that one yet, but he knew there was food in there. That meant if he stayed on this floor, he had two choices—either find a way to deal with the two zombies in the apartment to get the supplies or try to break into the locked apartment. Both options carried risks, but at least he knew what he was dealing with here. Moving to a different floor could lead to unknown dangers.

  Hugo clenched his jaw. "Do I clear this floor, or move on?" he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping anxiously against his knee.

  There was no obvious right answer. He just had to make the best choice he could and hope he didn’t get himself killed. Again.

  After a few deep breaths, Hugo made his decision—he would stay on this floor. He knew the layout, he knew where the threats were, and moving blindly to another floor felt like an even bigger gamble.

  His gaze shifted toward the part of the hallway he hadn’t explored yet—the side where the zombies had come from before, cutting off his retreat to his apartment. If he was going to clear this floor, he needed to know what was lurking there.

  Gripping his pan tightly, he stood up and adjusted his backpack. His body still ached from the last run, but he forced himself forward, stepping cautiously toward the unexplored side of the floor. The hallway stretched ahead, dark and silent, the doors leading into the unknown. Hugo swallowed hard. If there were more zombies, he had to be ready.

  One slow step at a time, he moved forward, scanning for movement, listening for any sound that would indicate he wasn’t alone.

  As he reached the end of the hallway, he spotted the second stairwell. His stomach sank. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, he could hear them—low, guttural shuffling and the occasional sharp scrape against metal. That explained how they always reached him so fast. They weren’t just scattered throughout the building; they had a direct path up and down through this stairwell.

  His grip on the pan tightened. He could try to deal with them now, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t get overwhelmed. No, he needed to think smarter. He needed to block their path.

  Hugo quickly turned back, making his way toward his apartment. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and scanned the room. If he was going to make this floor more secure, he’d have to block the hallway—make it impossible for them to freely move toward him.

  He started with his kitchen table, gripping one end and lifting it with a grunt. The wooden legs scraped lightly against the floor as he dragged it toward the hallway entrance. His arms burned from the effort, but he pushed through, angling the table to create an obstacle. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would slow them down.

  Next, he grabbed a couple of chairs, wedging them against the table legs to make the blockade sturdier. His breaths came slow and steady, making sure he didn’t knock anything over or make too much noise. One wrong move, and he’d have a horde at his door.

  He wasn’t done yet. His eyes landed on the dresser in his bedroom. That would be the real anchor of the barricade. He pressed his back against it, using his legs to push, inching it across the floor with deliberate care. It was heavier than he expected, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained against its weight.

  Minutes passed as he worked, dragging and adjusting furniture to create as strong a blockade as possible. A nightstand, more chairs, even a few random pieces of scrap wood he had lying around—anything to make it harder for them to get through.

  Finally, he stepped back, assessing his work. It wasn’t perfect, but it would buy him time. The zombies wouldn’t have a clear path anymore, and that meant he had more control over his movements. He wiped his hands on his pants, exhaling slowly.

  Now, he just had to wait and see if it would hold.

  But that wasn’t enough.

  His mind raced. The second stairwell—the one he had first used—wasn’t as much of a problem. The zombies from that side came slower. If he could block that entrance too, even partially, he’d gain even more control over the floor. And unlike this barricade, he wouldn’t need to haul heavy furniture. He just needed something to jam the door shut.

  Moving quickly but carefully, he stepped back into the hallway and made his way toward the first stairwell. The door there was still intact, but it wouldn’t hold forever if enough pressure was put on it. He tested it, giving it a light push—it moved slightly, but it was solid. That was good. He just needed something to keep it from opening easily.

  His eyes scanned the hallway. Then, an idea struck him. He hurried back into his apartment, scanning the area for something useful. He needed something sturdy, something that would keep the door from swinging open easily.

  Back at the stairwell door, he grabbed one of his own chairs and wedged it tightly under the handle, angling the legs to put pressure against the floor. It wasn’t perfect, but it would make opening the door a lot harder from the other side. He tested it, pulling gently—it held. Not perfect, but it would take time and effort for anything on the other side to get through.

  Hugo took a step back, rolling his shoulders. It wasn’t indestructible, but it was something. A little more time, a little more safety. He could work with that.

  For the first time since waking up, he felt like he was finally gaining some control over his situation.