Ron had just reached the fifth-floor landing when a calm, measured voice drifted down from above.
"Well, well… finally decided to come up."
He stilled.
The voice was familiar, but something about it felt… wrong. Warped.
Footsteps echoed from the stairwell above—slow, deliberate thuds on the metal steps. Then Raj appeared.
He looked like a shadow dragged out of a nightmare.
His body had changed. Broader. Heavy with muscle. His jaw was squared now, tight with something feral. In his right hand, he held a cricket bat wrapped in bloodstained cloth and crudely hammered with rusted needles. The blood hadn't dried yet. It dripped from the nails like sweat.
Behind him came six men, each one dressed in scavenged gear and holding AK-47s, rifles pointed directly at Ron.
Ron's eyes narrowed, but he kept his tone steady. "I thought you'd face me. Alone."
Raj stopped on the last step before the landing, smiling down at him.
"I would have," he said softly, almost with warmth.
"And I was tempted, really. The old days, right?"
Ron didn't move.
"You remember the warehouse?" Raj went on. "You, me, Nokul. Breaking our backs to hit quota. Just a bunch of nobodies trying to survive."
"You got fired," Ron said quietly.
"Because Nokul couldn't handle a little ambition." Raj's voice remained level, but something shifted behind his eyes. "He was weak. Always helping people. Like a fool."
Ron glanced at the rifles behind him. "Still hiding behind others, I see."
Raj chuckled. "Is that your angle? Trying to talk me into dropping the guns? Get a fair fight out of me?"
Ron said nothing.
Raj's calm cracked for the first time. Just a hairline fracture.
"I know what you did downstairs, Ron. Fourteen men. Armed. You butchered them in thirty minutes."
He tilted his head, voice turning cold.
"You think I'm stupid?"
Ron's eyes stayed fixed on him.
Raj exhaled slowly, then shifted the bat to rest across his shoulder. His tone changed—suddenly respectful, almost admiring.
"You're stronger than I thought. Smarter too. I mean that." He gestured with his free hand. "I've built something here. Order. Power. You don't have to keep wandering like a rabid dog. Join me, Ron. We'll give you everything. Cores. Protection. Food."
His smile grew thinner. "Even your girl."
Ron's fingers twitched.
Raj's gaze sharpened, and he stepped closer. The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by something colder. Rotten.
"I've seen her," he said softly. "That fire in her eyes… stubborn little thing. You've been keeping her close, huh? Like a secret."
His smile spread wider. "I wonder what kind of noises she'd make when she breaks. When I make her beg."
Ron's breath caught. A pulse roared in his head.
Raj leaned slightly forward, voice turning into a whisper full of poison.
"She'll hate it at first. They always do. But they learn. They always learn."
The air around Ron thickened. His heart slammed in his chest. For a second, he couldn't breathe.
That's when he saw it—Raj wasn't trying to recruit him.
He was toying with him. Feeding him false respect. Playing a game where the ending had already been decided.
This wasn't a negotiation.
It was mockery.
And Raj wanted him angry.
It worked.
Ron's fingers curled into fists. The knife in his hand trembled, his grip tightening as heat flooded through his limbs.
Then he moved.
Ron lunged.
A blur of motion—pure instinct wrapped in rage. He charged up the last few steps with a speed no ordinary human could match. But the moment he moved, the rifles came to life.
The six gunmen opened fire in unison. Muzzle flashes lit up the stairwell like a strobe, and the sharp roar of gunfire tore through the air.
Ron twisted mid-sprint, dropping low to the ground.
Bullets ripped through his jacket and tore into his shoulders. One punched clean through his right bicep, another grazed his ribs, burning hot like molten wire.
Pain exploded through him.
But he didn't stop.
He had no choice.
Taking the damage was part of the plan.
He pushed forward with a guttural roar, ducking under a fresh volley. His eyes locked on Raj—who was still standing just a step back from the firing line, watching with that same smug calm.
A final leap, and Ron crashed into him.
He grabbed Raj's wrist—the one holding the spiked bat—and wrenched it downward with a sickening crack. Raj grunted, more annoyed than hurt.
But that wasn't Ron's real target.
Using Raj's body as a springboard, Ron pivoted, launching himself at the closest gunman.
His hand clamped around the man's throat, crushing it with a single jerk. He didn't let go—just swung the limp body into the next man like a battering ram.
The second gunman stumbled back, and Ron was already there, slamming his elbow into the man's nose. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed.
Another turned to shoot—too slow.
Ron drove his fist into the man's face with all his strength.
The skull gave way.
There was a wet pop and a splatter of red mist. The man's body collapsed in a heap.
Three down. Three to go.
The survivors backed away in panic, trying to aim in the chaos. Ron spotted one fumbling with the safety.
Too late.
He snatched the rifle from the crushed corpse at his feet and squeezed the trigger.
A flurry of rounds ripped through the cramped corridor. At this range, there was no need to aim.
The last three gunmen dropped where they stood, shredded by the storm of bullets.
But not without cost.
Ron staggered.
Blood poured from his side. A bullet was still lodged deep in his abdomen—his regeneration wasn't fast enough to push it out yet. His breath came in short gasps, vision starting to blur.
He dropped the rifle, swaying slightly.
Raj had backed away during the chaos. Now he stepped forward again, eyes narrowed—not with panic, but calculation.
"So that was your plan," he said quietly. "The muscle, the speed—you never came for me. You came for them."
He tilted his head.
"Smart."
Ron wiped blood from his mouth and didn't reply.
Raj smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes.
"You think that was enough?"
He moved.
In the blink of an eye, Raj was behind him.
Ron barely had time to turn.
A crushing blow slammed into his back, hurling him forward like a rag doll. He smashed into the far wall, bones crunching on impact.
The breath was ripped from his lungs. He slumped to the floor, coughing blood.
Raj's boots echoed slowly behind him.
Ron tried to push up, but his limbs were heavy. Numb.
Raj knelt beside him, grabbed him by the neck, and lifted him like a broken doll.
Blood ran in rivulets from Ron's lips. His eyes fluttered, unfocused.
"Did you think I needed them?" Raj whispered into his ear. "They were just decoration."
Ron couldn't breathe. The world was spinning.
"I don't need a gang to kill you," Raj hissed. "I just wanted to watch you suffer first."
Then, in a voice like acid, he added, "And after I'm done with you, I'll take your little girlfriend upstairs. One way or another, she'll scream my name."
Ron's body dangled in the air, gripped by the throat.
His lungs screamed.
Raj's fingers tightened, pressing down like a vice. There was no desperation in his movements—just slow, deliberate cruelty. A predator enjoying the kill.
"You know," Raj murmured, his lips close to Ron's ear, "I never hated you. Not really. You were just always in the way. Nokul liked you. Trusted you."
He leaned back slightly, examining Ron's face with amusement.
"Even gave you his goddamn spare keys before me."
Blood bubbled at the corner of Ron's mouth. His vision was darkening at the edges.
"But now?" Raj said, his voice calm, too calm. "Now I think I do hate you. You walk in here, act like you're something more. You killed fourteen of my boys like they were nothing. That's not strength, Ron. That's arrogance."
He dropped Ron.
The sudden fall cracked Ron's knees against the ground.
But as Raj turned—perhaps thinking the fight was over—Ron moved.
A flicker of green light pulsed in his palm. A zombie core—stolen from one of the fallen gunmen—crushed in his grip like glass.
The energy rushed through him like wildfire. The pain didn't vanish, but it dulled, hidden under a wave of raw, electric rage.
He surged up.
Raj turned back too late.
Ron's fist connected with his gut—an explosion of force that sent Raj skidding ten feet across the blood-slick tiles.
Raj coughed once, a snarl twisting his mouth. "You're still standing?"
Ron stepped forward slowly.
His voice, when it came, was raw and low. "I knew you were vile, Raj. But even I didn't think you'd fall this far."
Raj wiped blood from his lip, chuckling. "Vile? You still talk like we're in the old world. Wake up, Ron. There's no good or evil anymore. Just those who take, and those who get taken."
He opened his arms wide.
"I offered you a seat at the top. You think I didn't know what you were doing? Trying to bait me into a fair fight?" He laughed. "You really thought I'd give you that? I saw the bodies downstairs. You're not a man, Ron. You're a monster in sheep's skin."
Ron didn't stop walking.
"And you're a rapist pretending to be a king."
Raj's smile vanished.
A twitch of his neck.
Then he roared, charging like a bull, spiked bat raised high.
Ron ducked the first swing and drove his shoulder into Raj's gut, lifting him off his feet. They slammed into the wall together, tiles cracking, dust raining down.
Raj elbowed him hard—once, twice—then spun and smashed the bat into Ron's jaw.
White-hot pain. Blood sprayed from Ron's mouth as he stumbled back.
Raj pressed the advantage, swinging wildly now, driven by fury.
Each blow was a blur of death.
Ron dodged, weaved, and took a glancing hit to the ribs—but now he had the rhythm. Raj was angry. Sloppy.
Ron let one more swing come close—and then moved inside the arc.
He grabbed Raj's wrist.
Crack.
A twist. A scream.
The bat dropped.
Ron drove a knee into Raj's face, shattering his nose.
Raj reeled.
And Ron didn't stop.
A punch to the throat. A hook to the temple. Another to the jaw. Bone cracked. Teeth flew.
Raj tried to backpedal—stumbling toward the broken window at the end of the corridor.
But Ron followed, step by step.
No words now.
Just wrath.
He punched Raj in the gut, doubled him over.
Then, gripping Raj by the collar, he slammed his head into the wall once.
Twice.
The third time, the wall cracked and Raj collapsed, coughing blood, barely conscious.
Ron stood over him, chest heaving.
Raj looked up, blood leaking from every part of his face. His lips moved weakly. "She's… not worth it…"
Ron knelt.
Grabbed Raj by the hair.
And whispered, "You were never worth the air you breathed."
Then, without hesitation, he crushed Raj's skull against the floor one final time.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ron rose, panting, broken, soaked in blood.