The scene outside was too terrifying to risk another glance. Nick’s pulse thundered in his ears, sweat dripping down his temple. The sturdy structure of the building was his only protection, and for now, that was enough.

  He forced himself to move, descending to the fourth floor and choosing the same apartment he had searched earlier. He rummaged through drawers, overturned cabinets, but found nothing new.

  The silence outside stretched unbearably long. It should have been a relief, but the quiet felt unnatural. Forced.

  "Are they still out there? Waiting?"

  His fingers trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face. He needed to leave.

  Tightening the cloth bag, he secured his scavenged supplies in his sack.

  ---

  With careful, measured steps, he climbed to the topmost floor once more.

  This time, he didn’t just look—he studied. His eyes scanned every shadow, every broken window, every shifting vine. He turned in slow, deliberate motions, making sure nothing moved where it shouldn’t.

  Only when he was certain no threats lurked nearby did he finally begin his descent.

  Leaving the building was a different challenge.

  "If they see me now, it's over."

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  ---

  Nick walked like a thief in enemy territory.

  His footsteps barely made a sound against the ruined pavement. His breath was controlled, shallow. Even the rustling of leaves felt too loud, too dangerous.

  "A newborn calf fears no tiger. But I am not a calf."

  He had seen what prowled this city. He had glimpsed the monstrous things lurking in the ruins.

  "This is their hunting ground. I was never supposed to be here."

  ---

  By the time he reached his basecamp, his muscles were taut, his senses stretched thin.

  And now, the truth was clear.

  There were no people in this city. Not because civilization had simply fallen—but because this place had become a hunting ground.

  The creatures here did not share.

  Living in the city was a death sentence.

  "I've never killed anything in my life. Not even a rabbit. What the hell am I supposed to do if I run into one of them?"

  To those things, he was nothing more than delivered food.

  But the wild was no safer.

  The unknown threats in the jungle, the shifting trees, the eerie silence—it carried its own kind of death.

  Yet, staying here meant starving.

  His supplies would run out. The land around his basecamp would deplete faster than he could replenish it.

  The city meant certain death. The wild meant possible survival.

  "Possible is better than guaranteed."

  He could work with that.

  ---

  Nick sat cross-legged on the ground, counting his gains.

  A sturdy pot, a sack, a large water bottle, three containers, and clothes.

  "Not bad. Not great either."

  It was enough. For now.

  He resolved himself. No more hesitation.

  He set up a small fire, boiling mushrooms and berries, drinking the thin soup in silence. It was hot, it was bitter, but it kept him alive.

  And for now, that was all that mattered.

  ---

  Morning came too soon.

  Nick rose early, moving with purpose.

  He collected water, washed utensils, and packed his remaining food into containers. He filled the last two with water, ensuring he had enough to last at least two days.

  Then, he dressed.

  The clothes, the armor of woven vines, the crude weapons. His stick rested firmly in his grasp, his sack slung over his shoulder.

  Before stepping away from the shelter, he turned back, taking in the space one last time.

  A house that once belonged to someone long gone.

  "Who lived here? Did they have time to run?"

  He inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment.

  Thank you, stranger.

  Then, without another word, he left.

  This time, he wasn’t coming back.