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last night on earth - i . | kdy

part ii, part iii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion. 

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but stil present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible minor character death, language word count:  4.2k

author’s note: i have an unhealthy attachment to this fic and the plan i have for it so please don’t come for my neck !!!!!!!! i simply had to ;~;

It starts off at four in the afternoon with a series of emergency phone calls.

The first is a woman reporting an intruder in her house — nothing the department hasn’t handled before, and it just seems like an isolated criminal case, so they dispatch you and your partner, Youngho, to quickly investigate the situation. Even with Youngho’s less-than-lawful driving speed and his fulfilment of his desire to dramatically enter a house by kicking the door down when no one answers (because he’s always wanted to do that), you find the place lacking in commotion when you arrive. You don’t even have time to contemplate how eerily quiet the house is when both of your phones go off, and you hear the deputy chief’s voice, uncharacteristically ragged, yelling down your line.  

“You two better get your asses back to HQ,” he roars. Even with the volume of his voice, you can’t help but notice the phones ringing off the hook, trills constantly overlapping and being cut short by frantic co-workers answering them two at a time. “We’ve got emergency calls from all over the city, and now the mayor’s on the other line screaming at us to lock the whole city down.”

“A city lockdown?” You’re still expressing your shock to him when you feel yourself being dragged out of the house by Youngho’s unnaturally firm hand. It’s likely he’d gotten the same call from someone else, since he’s urging you to hurry up and get in the car, and he even helps you along by pushing down on your head and practically shoving you into the passenger’s seat. “What the hell for?”  

“Fuck if I know,” he says curtly. “Just hurry already. Chief wants to see everyone, but he wants to talk to both of you, too.”

“But we — ” the deputy chief hangs up before you can get another word out, which is just as well since Youngho had just floored the gas pedal, and the police car revs so loudly you actually feel your ears pop a little. “What the hell — who called you?”

“Chief,” Youngho answers. “Says we need to get back ASAP.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Yeah, and while he was at it, we had some tea and crackers, and chatted about the weather.” He throws you a patronizing look. “He barely got five angry words out before he hung up.”

“That’s pretty weird.”

“For the chief? Not really.”

You end up agreeing in silence, watching the houses zip by from your window. Everything looks scarily empty in this area; it’s mid-afternoon, though, so you don’t really make much of it, since most people tend to be out for work or just coming home from school at this time. You’re not even really sure why you feel like the street seems so eerie, but you end up brushing it off, allowing your mind to focus on more substantial things, like the sound of static that strengthens and weakens while Youngho fiddles with the police scanner.

That plan of distraction works out for about five minutes, at which point you see an old lady on the sidewalk get tackled to the ground by a flurry of limbs.

Your extremely loud curse word harmonizes with Youngho’s, and the back of your head hits the headrest of your seat hard as he slams down on the brake, the car skidding sideways as its inertia is interrupted and it quite literally swings off course, barely missing a lamppost. The both of you scramble out of the car, pulling out your handguns and positioning them, Youngho’s hand a little steadier than yours, even if you don’t really care to admit it.  

The elderly woman is on the ground, her grocery bags a few feet away from her arms, which are limp for the most part, save a finger or two twitching helplessly in their attempts to reach out at her fallen food. Her attacker, probably a middle-aged man in a business suit, is hovering over her, almost motionless in a pool of her blood that’s slowly creeping past his knees. You’re the first to cock your gun — you can’t imagine why he wouldn’t just run away, but you also can’t imagine why a sensibly dressed human being might go out of his way to attack a harmless old woman.  

Youngho’s gun clicks a few seconds after yours, but the man doesn’t seem to be fazed by it; in fact, he hardly seems to notice, especially since, upon slightly closer observation, he seems to be retching or something over her body. You can’t even mistake it for crying because the sounds are just downright disgusting. Even Youngho’s face, as you observe from the power of peripheral vision, is contorted into this slightly uncomfortable expression.  

You dare to step closer, and Youngho follows suit, but the guy doesn’t budge anyway, too busy probably vomiting over the poor lady to care. It takes all of your willpower not to wrinkle your nose, but the distressingly wet sounds coupled with the new stench that assaults your nose makes it pretty difficult.  

Your partner takes the initiative to speak, because you’re not entirely sure what to say at this point. “Put down whatever weapons you have and step away from the body, sir,” Youngho’s voice is just as steady as his hold on his gun, which is extremely admirable considering that neither of you still have any clue as to what this man is up to. “Any sudden movements or attempts to flee will be met with gunfire.”  

You think the man might start running (as is expected) or might freeze up and beg for mercy (as is also expected), but you don’t expect him to wheel around and sneer at you with blood dripping down his chin and a pearl from the old lady’s necklace trapped between his teeth. The front of his shirt has been ripped open, too, and there are scratches and wounds — bite marks??? — on his skin, many still fresh. His expression isn’t angry, or terrified, or guilty; all you can see on his face is the raging desire to rip the both of you apart with his bare, bloody hands, and he makes this guttural, almost animalistic noise to confirm your theory.  

At this point, neither of you can be expected to stay composed, so both of you let out a panicked appeal to the Lord, turn to instinct, and fire your weapons.

There’s a reaction from him, sure — your bullet hits his chest and Youngho’s hits his shoulder, and his torso kicks back at the force of the impact. He doesn’t topple over, though; he stays snarling at the both of you, maybe a little more perturbed, while the two bullet wounds leak out more blood, even though he doesn’t seem to care about that either.  

“What,” Youngho breathes out; he’s lost a lot of his nerve, and he’s lowered his weapon about halfway, his disbelief taking over. “What in the fuck.”

The sound of Youngho’s voice causes the man to turn sharply to him, teeth bared as wide as his mouth can allow. You don’t know what possesses you to shoot again, but your finger presses against the trigger before you can make a better decision, and the bite of the bullet against the side of his neck causes him to change his target, his murky eyes now fixing on you. He moves himself off his knees in a strangely limp fashion, at which point, the idea that something really isn’t right hits you, and you pull at Youngho’s arm, which has once again raised quickly in response.  

“We need to go,” your voice is weak. “Like, right fucking now.”

Youngho stepping back is enough to confuse the guy, who’s now looking back and forth between the both of you like he can’t decide which one he wants to start ripping apart first. The decision doesn’t seem to matter to him at the end of the day, though, because he eventually puts it aside and decides to charge at you with his arms out, screeching horribly, a trail of blood and saliva still hanging off his lips.

“Oh fuck me —“ Youngho manages to wheeze out, panickedly grabbing your arm as well and dragging you back towards the car. You both fumble with the door, and it doesn’t help that you can just hear the growling getting closer. A stream of swear words fills the car as Youngho shuts his door and tries to insert the keys into the ignition.  

“Hurry up,” you half-scream. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up —”

“Will you shut up?” He snaps, finally jamming the keys in and bringing the engine to life.  

“Youngho, go!”

“Shut up!”

Both of you yell when you feel something hit the driver’s side of the car; it rocks a little, and you see hands clawing at Youngho’s window, nails screeching against the glass; Youngho manages to hit the gas just as the man’s snarling head comes up into view, and you feel a slightly less heavy thud hit the vehicle again as you leave his battered body behind in a frenzy of smoke and dust.

Nothing much passes between you at first; you’re both breathing so heavily it kind of feels like you’re sucking up all the oxygen in the car. Both of you start (Youngho almost hitting the brakes in full again) when you phone starts ringing loudly.

“Where the hell are you two?” The deputy chief bellows; you can actually hear his enraged breathing punctuate his question for a brief second. “I told you to get back here right away!”

“Sir, there was this man that attacked —“

“I don’t care what you two have been doing! Just be here in the next five minutes!”  

Even the click of the phone sounds angry, and you let out a groan, tossing your phone onto the dashboard. “Whatever your speed is, double it.”

Youngho is still evidently a little shaken, and he complies without question on the matter, knuckles white as his hands grip the steering wheel. “What the hell just happened, ________________?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Mental illness? Drug abuse, maybe?”

“He was eating her. He’d chomped down on half of her neck muscles in a minute.”  

“I don’t know, Youngho,” you repeat. “Did you ever read that story about that guy who ate another guy in Florida? He was sick, too.”

“Yeah, but he was shot to death by the police,” he reminds you. “Which didn’t happen, in our case.”  

“Bulletproof vest?”

“He was bleeding, dumbass.”

You decide to let the insult slide given that it was obvious the both of you were dancing around on your last nerves. Crimes for personal gain were one thing;  petty theft, home intrusions, bank robberies were all pretty standard and, while unlawful, hardly gave you the kind of creeps you were experiencing now. Homicides were a slightly separate issue and much more disturbing, but you’ve never had to deal with a case of someone killing someone, eating them, and then refusing to die when shot. Until today, that is.  

The both of you sit through the rest of the car ride in silence, Youngho weaving his way through the traffic jam at the rotary. He ends up having to turn on the siren, but it’s of little help, and the deputy chief ends up having to call you again right as you’re pulling up to headquarters. He’s red in the face and about ready to gnaw your heads off when you rush in, breathless and apologetic.

“Can it,” he puts up a hand as you open your mouth to explain. “I don’t give a shit. The whole city’s on lockdown process right now. The mayor wants our full attention on keeping civilians safe from the crisis.”

“What crisis?” Youngho bursts out; he hardly talks over authority, which sort of shocks the deputy chief into a brief spell of silence. “Sir, we’ve just seen a man murder an innocent woman on the street, and he —“

“There are bigger issues than that,” the deputy chief snaps. “Big mobs and mass riots have been cropping up all over different districts. Jung-gu and Mapo-gu have already shut down. We’ve been getting reports that a horde of people have just started raiding and attacking establishments and offices. The entire subway system closed down, too. We’ve already sent out some people to help mitigate the fighting and a bunch of other corporals to watch the city borders. It’s like the fucking purge, except no one knows what started it.”

“So why does the chief need us?”

“Ask him; he’s on the phone with the mayor right now, but he’s also been looking for the both of you. Maybe the next time you two are given an order, you’ll actually do it on time.”

He jerks an annoyed thumb to the chief’s office before stalking off, pulling out his phone to yell at someone else. You and Youngho exchange a look of alarm before walking up to the door. A silent, irritating debate on who should knock ensues, ending when you smack his scissors away with your paper and rap shortly on the door.

“Come in.”

You turn the knob and let the door swing open before pushing Youngho inside; he makes a noise of protest he has to kill immediately when the chief looks up with a grim face, putting the phone back in to the receiver.

“I’m assuming Deputy Choi has already told you about the situation in the financial district.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond simultaneously.

“The mayor wanted the city locked down, but he also wanted some of our people looking after the officials in this city. I’m sending out some of our corporals to guard the senators and high-profile conglomerate business owners in Gangnam-gu.”

Once again, you and Youngho turn to each other in confusion. “But, sir, we’re not —“

“What I’m getting at,” he silences Youngho, who sucks in his lips so far back he looks like an elderly man. “Is that I’m promoting you two. We’re short a few people who can do this job right, and you’re two of the only officers with enough years under their belt to qualify to some degree.”  

“Um — thank you, sir,” you start. “But I still don’t understand what —“

“Do either of you two know anything about Kangwoo Logistics?”

“They’re a shipping and manufacturing company,” Youngho answers, then adds under his voice. “My refrigerator is from them.”

“The family that owns it is living in Gangnam; their CEO is living Gangnamdaero and their COO is in Apgujeong. Flip a coin to see who goes where; I don’t care. I need both of you stationed at their doors and ready to gun down anything that might come after them.”

“What’s coming after them, chief?”

He sighs deeply as he picks up the phone, avoiding your eyes as he punches in a number and responds to your question.

“Hell.”

You and Youngho play two rounds of rock, paper, scissors that ends in a 1-all win. He calls dibs on keeping the police car, and you get to choose Apgujeong because it’s closer to your parents’ house, just in case you need to take a shower or raid their fridge, or something. The entire building is going to be locked down as well since all the other officers are on duty, and you’re both cleaning out your locker when the deputy chief comes around and tosses two bulletproof vests at you.  

“Promotion gift,” he says gruffly. “You’re gonna need it.”  

“Thank you, sir,” Youngho picks up his and slips it on; it sits well on his shoulders, whereas yours almost drowns you. You throw the deputy chief a distressed look, and he has the decency to respond with a sheepish one.  

“We didn’t really have a lot of options on hand. You can just pad it out with an extra shirt.”  

“Sir,” you tug off the vest, setting it on top of your bag. “About this afternoon — Officer Seo and I were hoping to bring it up with you.”  

“What about it?”

“We saw a man attack an old woman. At first we thought it was just a…” you pause; you don’t even really know what it seemed like, let alone what it was. “We thought it was just a random murder, but when we got closer he —“

“Attacked you?” You nod slowly. “What did he do? To the old woman.”

“He was… he was… eating her, sir. It looked like he’d taken a bite out of her neck.”

You expect the deputy chief to look shocked or, at the very least, disgusted, but all he does is sigh heavily, like he’d gotten really disappointing news. “It’s been happening all over the city. People randomly attacking others; and they all end up acting like rabid animals.”  

“But what is it, sir?” Youngho pipes in.  

“We don’t know. No one really does. Which is why you have to keep a good watch out. The chief’s going to have your ass if anything happens to them.”  

“They’re not politicians or anything,” Youngho, who’s been admiring his reflection surreptitiously in his locker mirror, finally slips off the vest and stuffs it in his bag as well. “What makes them so important?”

“Beats me. But the mayor asked for some of our people to be sent over to them, so that’s what we’re doing.”  

He ushers you out, reminding you to keep your phone lines open at all times, and you and Youngho pile into the car once again, setting off for Apgujeong. You hardly hit any traffic now, which is fine time-wise, but it’s also not normal for Gangnam at this time — couple that with the fact that most places have closed shop.  

“Even Starbucks is closing,” Youngho remarks in some awe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a closed Starbucks.”  

“Will you focus on driving? We really don’t need another death on our hands today.”  

“Just type the address,” he says snippily, shoving the paper in your face and letting you key in the street name. The GPS rattles out directions, taking you down Apgujeong Rodeo Street and into the more residential parts of town.  

“Jesus Christ,” you press your face against the window, jaw hanging open. “They even trashed the cinema.”

“So we have ourselves some… popcorn-loving cannibals? Like, maybe they use it as a side dish to human flesh.”

“That’s totally disgusting.”

“I was just trying to lighten the mood. I don’t think — what’s his name? Kim Doyoung-nim is going to appreciate his bodyguard not having a sense of humor.”

“Bodyguards aren’t supposed to have senses of humor,” you frown. “And I’m not a bodyguard. I’m a police officer.”

“Yeah, well, starting today you’re a bodyguard with a cool badge,” he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We both are.”  

“We got a promotion, and you’re talking like this is the stupidest thing that’s ever happened in your career.”

“We got a promotion so we could be babysitters, ___________________,” he sighs, like he can’t believe you’re being this foolish. “Instead of being out there, helping people and saving the world, we have to coddle two rich dudes. We’re going to be going out and picking up their laundry and making sure they eat their vegetables before tucking them into bed. Please tell me what isn’t stupid about this situation.”

“They’re important people; the mayor asked for them to be protected.”

“Because they have a couple of cool boats and have a pretty good name in the kitchen appliances industry?”  

“I — just shut up,” you wave him off, folding your arms across your chest. He snorts, slowing down the car as he pulls into a narrow street with a row of huge houses. The street isn’t actually narrow by nature, but there are so many cars parallel parked on either side of the road that you feel like you have to suck in your stomach so that the police car can fit between them.

“Smell that? It’s the smell of pampered chaebol kids and the leather on their expensive sports cars.”  

“Give it a rest. Pull up here — right here.” You point to a mailbox with gold numbers on its side that match the address on the paper. “I think this is it.”

“Do you need help with any of your stuff?” Youngho calls out as you push the door open, and you wave off his question as you make your way to the trunk, pulling out your bag. You really do need to go to your parents’ place; apart from the vest, you only have one change of clothes and two pairs of socks. You make a mental note to call them about it.  

Youngho rolls down the window as you walk up to the mailbox, sticking his big head out. “Are you going be okay?”

“I guess so,” you adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and pat your bulletproof vest reassuringly. “I should probably head in now. Let me know when you get to Kim Jungwoo-ssi’s house.”

“Yeah, I will. Let me know if Kim Doyoung-ssi’s house really does have six bathrooms, like I suspect it does,” Youngho laughs, but there’s no real mirth to his voice; it’s just for show, really. His expression softens when you don’t join in. “Don’t die, okay? I’ll kill you if you do.”

“Please,” it’s your turn to laugh, even if your voice is trembling a little. “You know we’re both invincible.”  

“Damn straight,” he ducks back into the car, rolling the window up. You stand on the sidewalk, waving at him, and you see the white of his palm wave back from inside the car as he drives away, trying really hard not to feel like this is some kind of last goodbye.  

You have to take two deep breaths to steady yourself before you walk up the driveway; Kim Doyoung clearly lives a comfortable life, with two sports cars parked in front of his house and a well — who the hell has a well in their damn garden? Maybe Youngho’s right — it’s wholly possible that this monstrously large mansion does have six bathrooms.

What it doesn’t have is a proper doorbell, however; you can see that there’s an intercom system with a camera, and it’s obvious that it would be the way to announce your presence, but you still spend two minutes checking out the door just to see if you can ring a more normal bell so you can avoid having to be seen by this guy without seeing him back. Of course, there’s nothing, so you either have to content yourself with the camera-bell system or knock.  

You can hear the trill of the music when you press the button; a couple of seconds later, you hear a male voice, a lot softer than you’d imagined, come through the speaker.  

“Who is it?”  

“Um — Kim Doyoung-nim? It’s Corporal ____________, from the Gangnam-gu Police Department.”

A soft sigh punctuates the brief and honestly awkward exchange; a couple of minutes later, the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with a young man. In his loose sweatshirt and pants, he doesn’t look like he could afford to pay the rent for one of the rooms of the house, let alone actually own it. Half his body is still behind the door; in the shadow it casts over him, you can barely see his face. The only indication that he is the guy you’re looking for is his question.

“How can I help you, officer?”  

“The mayor sent me. I’m here to protect you, sir.”

He’s clearly taken aback by this information because the door widens a fraction as he lets go of the knob. “Protect… me?”

“Yes, sir. There’s mass rioting going on in other parts of the district, so we need to secure your home right away.”  

He doesn’t respond immediately; you can hear the click of the knob as he turns it — once, twice, thrice. Finally, he sighs again, heavier this time.  

“I’m sorry for making you come all the way here, but you need to leave.”  

It’s your turn to be taken aback now, but you don’t express this feeling as silently; you sputter a little, whatever composure you had slipping off a bit more. “But — sir, my orders were to —“  

“I don’t need your protection,” he says more firmly now. “Good day to you, officer.”  

You can’t even imagine how thunderstruck your expression is when he shuts the door right in your face.  

last night on earth - ii . | kdy

part i, part iii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion.

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but still present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible character death, language word count: 5.5k  

author’s note: interestingly while i was at work the other day i found my original 10 chapter + epilogue plan for this so i guess past!me was kind of a real one 

The next five minutes involve the tedious process of you gaping at the door while you attempt to come to terms with what had just happened, your jaw opening and closing like you’re a goldfish; you trying to ring the doorbell again and talk through the microphone even though you know it isn’t on; and giving up on that entirely and rapping on the door, your knuckles growing redder with each knock.

“Kim Doyoung-ssi. Kim Doyoung-ssi?” You call out in increasing levels of volume and intensity. “I think we’ve had a little bit of a misunderstanding. Can you — could you please open the door? Kim Doyoung-ssi?”  

Your knocking grows weaker as time passes, mostly because your fist is starting to experience some kind of burning sensation that can’t mean anything good; you can also tell that this pain is in vain and that your current tactic is totally ineffective considering you’re still not getting a response.  

From the corner of your eye, you see an open window, just over the well in the garden. You end up calling his name, face tilted towards the window in the hope that he can hear you better. Nothing happens, save for the curtain blowing a little in the wind. Even standing on the stool next to the well doesn’t give you any kind of clue as to where he is, so after a few more minutes of futilely calling out to him, you just march back to the front door.  

“I know you can hear me in there, Kim Doyoung-ssi!” You finally reach the breaking point of your patience, which had already been worn down by two trips across town and your having witnessed a full on inexplicable cannibal attack. “I’m staying right here!”  

You toss your bag to the side and slump down onto the marble patio, your back finally getting some damn relief when you lean back against the cold, varnished wood of his big doors. There’s nothing else for you to do apart from play games on your phone, so you pull it out to see a couple of texts from Youngho.  

[ incoming ] 영호- just got to gangnamdaero. kim jungwoo makes his brother look like a beggar looool [ incoming ] 영호- what’s going on w/ u

you make an incensed noise and type back your reply so angrily you think your screen might crack.  

[ outgoing ] asshole won’t let me into his house!!!!!!

The more you think about it, the more your irritation grows; you can’t see a reason why he wouldn’t want some extra security. Was his entire property booby trapped, or something? What made him so complacent? And who turns down extra security that’s being offered to you for free? The only explanation you can come up for it is that he’s somehow convinced he doesn’t need your protection or doesn’t think you can do a good job of providing it for him, which just opens up another can of worms. South Korea isn’t really well-known for letting women take up civil protection positions. This is all just guesswork, of course, but even considering that he might think you’re not qualified to be his — as Youngho would put it — babysitter because you’re a girl is really riling you up.

Your phone trills again, signaling a new message from Youngho.

[ incoming ] 영호 - what do you mean he won’t let you in

[ outgoing ] i mean i’m just sitting out here after he shut the door in my face

[ incoming ] 영호 - does he know you’re a police officer? maybe he thinks ur just trying to get into his pockets [ incoming ] 영호 - or his pants lol jk just ring the doorbell again and tell him the mayor sent you [ incoming ] 영호 - kim jungwoo has an indoor pool

[ outgoing ] can you not text so smugly

[ incoming ] 영호 - i’m trying but he did just say i could use it whenever so it’s kind of hard

[ outgoing ] so much for protecting him

[ incoming ] 영호 - nothing’s going on here. It’s all clear. maybe the whole crisis is over? kind of like seasonal flu

[ outgoing ] you just want to go swimming

[ incoming ] 영호 - yeah i REALLY do ttyl gonna do a perimeter check

So much for Youngho criticizing all the rich people. You look up at the doorbell, wondering if you should try ringing it again, but the thought of doing so somehow makes you feel itchy on the inside. In the end, you decide to follow in Youngho’s footsteps and do a perimeter check, except you sort of feel like an intruder trying to figure out the right way to break into Kim Doyoung’s house. He has a pretty wide backyard with a substantially diverse bed of flowers, but there’s nothing much special here; it’s more typical “city-rich boy that spends more time outside” than outright ostentatious and lavish — at least, in comparison to what Youngho must be seeing, considering he’s already found an indoor pool. You count his windows, and none of them are open save the one, so it’s either he has a centralized air-conditioning system or he’s suffering in stuffiness because he just doesn’t want you inside. The latter possibility makes you feel a little better.

All in all, you note nothing out of the ordinary; you circle back to the front door in about ten minutes. You only note a couple of high-risk things: first, his house has a number of large windows that are latch-based, which means that anyone with decent knowledge on tools and how basic mechanisms work can probably break into his house, but he must have some kind of alarm system, considering how loaded he is. Second, and more importantly, a couple of rooms in his house are more glass than any other kind of material; while more of a natural disaster risk than anything else, you can’t rule out the fact that a mass attack on this place might use those rooms as an entry point. Heck, a couple of well-aimed bullets and those rooms become part of his backyard.  

You’re technically supposed to report all of this to him, but it’s not like you can at this point, so you just sit back down and take out your phone again. Youngho must be having the time of his life with a guy willing to give him a roof over his head for the night and a dip in his cool indoor pool while you have to figure out how you’re going to sleep on your clothes and use them tomorrow morning. You think about asking him to come pick you up or something or to at least tell Kim Jungwoo to talk some sense into his brother, but both of those options sound childish, which is why you end up putting them aside and just playing stupid match-three games.

The sun is more than halfway down when you get tired of playing; the street is still as quiet as it had been when you’d arrived, save for the crickets, but the slowly growing darkness makes the silence seem so much more sinister. You’re torn between ringing the doorbell again just to beg or running over to a convenience store to get some extra underwear and some beef jerky for the night when your phone rings, almost scaring you into screaming. It isn’t Youngho, like you’d initially assumed; it’s the deputy chief.  

“Corporal Seo told me you’re having some issues.” He sounds exasperated, like he can’t believe he still has to supervise you even until this point.  

“Um,” you can’t keep the sheepishness out of your voice. “A… little.”

“A little? I hope you’re not wasting anyone’s time here.”

“Kim Doyoung-ssi isn’t… keen on being protected. He sent me away.”

“God. Don’t tell me you actually left,” he groans.  

“No — I’m just out here.” You reply lamely. “At his front door.”

“Well, good. Stay there if you have to. I’ll tell someone to come check on you and bring you any necessities once we have a warm body to spare, but it’s not looking likely. We’re getting non-stop reports of escalation in Seollung and Samseong. Yeongdong-daero is practically a war zone now. More dead than alive there. We’re not dealing with anything normal here, so you need to be on your toes at all times.”

“Sir — what do you mean, not anything normal?”

“That attack you and Corporal Seo mentioned this afternoon? It’s not an isolated case. More and more people are turning rabid, like they’re sick and they’re infecting others by attacking them.” He pauses, and you’re sure it’s not for dramatic effect, but it still ends up dramatic when he continues. “They’re indiscriminate, vicious, and fast. There’s no easy way to gun them down. And the people they kill? They don’t stay dead for very long, either.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Are you a religious woman, corporal?”

“Not particularly.”

“Might want to start picking up a Bible if you have the time.” His consequent chuckle is dark, half-hearted, and leaves you more disturbed than amused. “Keep steady at your post. We’ll update you when we can get a man out there. In the meantime, make sure nothing happens to Kim Doyoung-nim.”  

You hang up with the feeling that you would have preferred it if Youngho had called, even if it were just to gloat about floating around in a nice, safe indoor pool. With a groan, you lean your head back against the door, watching the last of the sun dip down beneath the horizon. Somewhere on the second floor, a room is lit, and the light provides you with the minimal comfort that you’re, at least, not entirely alone.  

Seconds morph into minutes, and the minutes blend into the long stretch of an hour; you shift positions here and there, trying to not let your feet fall asleep in case you have to get up quickly, but, so far, your left leg is refusing to cooperate. At one point, you hear rustling near the hedges, and you have to deal with trying to get off your ass without putting too much weight on your foot, but it turns out to be a false alarm halfway through when a stray cat peers out, gives you a tiny glare, and stalks off to bother someone else’s trash.  

A little over an hour passes, which leads you to start thinking about long-term options, but even that train of thought is totally derailed by the fact that you really want to get cleaned up. You’re weighing how much of your dignity you’ll have left if you use the well as your last-resort shower stall when the door suddenly opens; you jackknife off it just in time to avoid falling backward onto Kim Doyoung’s feet.  

“You’re still here.” He observes softly, watching you scramble up and silence your phone, which had just been obnoxiously playing music at the highest volume. “Why?”  

“Like I said, I’m staying right here. My job is to protect you, so I’m doing just that.”  

“And you’re doing this to the grating tune of Sunmi’s Siren?”

“Well, I —“ you have to stop yourself from defending your musical tastes, but in the time it takes you to switch from an indignant mindset to a more professional one, he cuts you off again.  

“I’m not comfortable with a stranger sitting outside my front door overnight. And, like I said, I don’t need your protection. You would be doing us both a favor if you just went home, officer.”  

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” you say, inwardly pleased that your voice has regained a lot more of the firmness you need to make your point. “The mayor asked the police department to watch over you and your brother. This is me, acting on an order.”

“If you’re meant to be my bodyguard —”

“I’m not your bodyguard,” you bristle. Something like amusement passes across his face.

“If you’re meant to be protecting me, then you’re, in a sense, contractually bound to me. That means that I’m currently first in the line of authority. Just think of this as me… retracting the contract early.”  

“That’s really not how this works.”  

“Have a good night, officer,” he makes to shut the door again, but your irritation from the absurdity of the situation as well as your desperation to sit on a surface that isn’t just marble floor causes you to stick your foot in the doorway, effectively stopping it from closing all the way. Kim Doyoung looks down at it in some surprise.  

“Kim Doyoung-ssi, I don’t think you understand. The entirety of Seoul is on lockdown. There are people randomly killing other people with their bare hands in the street. These people — they’re turning into monsters that can’t be killed. I don’t know if this is a blow to your pride, but if I were offered protection from something like this, I’d take it gladly.”

“I know what’s going on,” he frowns. “I’ve been watching the news. And it doesn’t look like you’d be able to stop anything from coming after me, so why risk it?”

Your lips press into a thin line. “If you’re so bothered by it, then I can call the department and ask them to send their first free male officer to your house as soon as possible. But for now, you’re just going to have to deal with me.”

“What — no,” he has the audacity to laugh, and even in the cloud of annoyance that surrounds you, you notice that it’s a laugh that doesn’t really suit him. Guys tend to laugh loudly, without restraint, and oftentimes, sort of… ugly. Not this guy — the chuckle he creates is all teeth and soft sounds, sort of like he’s holding himself back. “It’s not because you’re a woman. I’m sure you’re just as capable as anyone else. I just don’t see the point in added security. That just means one more person dying because of me.”

“Like I said,” you repeat the phrase that’s sort of becoming trademark in this interaction. “It’s my job. We’re supposed to be putting our lives on the line for civilians — which, I think, include you.”  

“So you’re okay with that? Dying because of a stranger?”

“Dying because I’m doing what I have to — what I love to? That doesn’t sound bad to me, Kim Doyoung-ssi.”

“That’s very noble of you, officer,” his consequent smile isn’t as genuine as his laugh; it hardly reaches his eyes. “But I’m not keen on watching someone else die for me and living with the guilt that comes after that. I already have a lot on my plate as it is.”  

“Well, that just means I’ll have to do everything I can to keep us both alive, right?”  

Silence blossoms between the two of you; his fingers are rolling the doorknob idly, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Finally, he lets out a characteristically heavy sigh and opens the door a little wider.  

“I’m not comfortable with you staying outside, so you can stay tonight. I’ll call the mayor tomorrow and talk to him about duty relief for you.”  

You catch yourself just before you make a noise of relief and hurry to pick up what little you’ve brought. He’s already halfway inside when you straighten up, but he’s left the door open for you, so you quietly make your way in, shutting and locking the door behind you.  

“Living room, kitchen, study, bathroom, den,” he points to each room nonchalantly. You can hear noise coming from somewhere upstairs — probably a television opened to the news. “But you already knew that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Or was I wrong in assuming that you weren’t figuring it out when you were snooping around my house?”

“Wha —hold on, I was doing a perimeter check,” You say defensively. “I didn’t make a detailed map.”  

There it is again — that suppressed ghost of a laugh that comes one second and is completely gone the next. “Just trying to lighten the mood a little.”  

“My sense of humor isn’t that sharp.”  

“I can tell,” he turns away from you, making his way up the stairs before stopping halfway, raising an arm to point to the door closest to the landing. “This is my room. Feel free to use any other guest room tonight. Oh — except for the one furthest down the hall.” The puzzled look on your face probably gives away the fact that you’re thinking he must be full of ugly or kinky secrets, and while you don’t verbalize any of these thoughts, his response suggests that he read your expression accurately. “It’s my girlfriend’s room. She has a lot of valuable stuff there, and she prefers it when they’re left untouched; she’s really particular about that.”

“Is your girlfriend on the premises?”  

“Not now, no. She only stays occasionally, when work brings her into Seoul. Most of the time, she lives with her family in Daegu.”  

“Oh. I see.” You have no idea what to say to this, and he doesn’t invite any more conversation either, so you spend another minute staring at each other before you lamely announce, “I’ll… be checking the perimeter, then.”

“I thought you already did that.” He’s amused again.

“I meant — security systems. Here. Inside. Reinforcement planning.”

“Reinforcement?”

“Your glass rooms are just begging to be shattered.” You explain.  

“Poor architectural choices back when I first bought this place. But I’m assuming you’re not planning to nail bits of wood to them.”

“No, but I can see if we can install some kind of frontline barrier outside them. Do you have a CCTV system?”

“Not at the moment.” You stop yourself from asking what kind of rich guy doesn’t have a security system, but you once again assume he’s already anticipated that question through his follow-up statement. “Up until very recently, this has been a very safe neighborhood. No anomalies, no strange people hanging around my property until today.”  

“I did find an intruder cat a while ago,” you take a stab at being funny. That weak little smile creeps back onto his face.  

“I wasn’t talking about the cats.”  

Even though you’re supposed to put security first, you end up just idly milling around the glass room previously identified as the den — which is about the size of your apartment, probably — thinking of how much you want to shampoo your hair and how much you would actually kill to have some corn cheese from the nearest GS25. The moment you hear Kim Doyoung’s bedroom door close, you hurry up the stairs. It only takes you one other try to find a guest room (the first attempt being a pretty sizable bathroom) and five minutes to rid yourself of your sticky uniform and hop into the shower.  

You come out feeling like a decent human being again about fifteen minutes later, and your mood takes a pretty big spike upwards for about two seconds, up until your singular set of clothes reminds you that you’re really only here for one night, and you have no clue how you’re going to explain being relieved of the one job you were promoted for not even 24 hours in. You’re toweling your hair dry in an increasingly aggravated manner when your phone starts blaring again, and it’s actually Youngho this time.  

“Turn the video on,” he says, inappropriately gleeful. “I want to see you roughing it outside.”  

“I’m inside, you dick,” you snap, rejecting his request to switch to video twice. “Don’t you have a job to do?”  

“Yeah, and it’s going really well, thanks for asking. How’d you get him to let you in?”

“I didn’t really. He just sort of gave up on keeping me out. He says he’s going to call the mayor tomorrow and ask him to retract the order.” You pause before finally letting your anxiety get the best of you. “You don’t think I’m going to get demoted for this, right?”

“I doubt it,” Youngho, for the most part, actually sounds genuine. “It’s not like it’s your fault that Kim Doyoung-ssi is all about doing things himself. Worst case scenario is that you’ll get reassigned to some other similarly stuffy, rich, and ancient guy.”

“He’s, like, our age.”

“I know. You’re missing my point entirely. Just stop worrying.”  

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh, tossing the wet towel into the hamper. You’ve forgotten your comb, so you just wing it and go out of your room, haphazardly running your fingers through your hair to tame it to a degree. “So have you had any problems on your end?”

“Not at all. It’s way quiet here. Actually, I’m pretty sure half the people in this neighborhood don’t care that there’s something going on outside. There was a couple hosting a barbecue on their front lawn an hour ago. You?”  

“Nope, all clear here, so far.” The television sounds are louder this time, and they’re no longer coming from Kim Doyoung’s bedroom; they’re coming from the living room now, and the volume is up to full blast. You peek over the banister, but the owner of the house isn’t on any of the couches. “Just an empty street, the same way we found it.”

“I hope that means we can leave soon.”

“Yeah, because you’re having such a difficult time with Kim Jungwoo-ssi’s swimming pool there.”

“He’s got table football here,” he sounds pleased again. “And my guest room has a TV bigger than any of the walls in my apartment.”

“The shower in my room has nice water pressure,” you argue, taking slow steps down the stairs. “Also, I feel like you’re not really doing your job that well.”

“That’s very hurtful, and I’d like to bring this up during partner therapy next week.”

“I’ll let you, if we actually make it through the week.” You finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Youngho’s wheeze of a laugh brings a tiny, tired smile to your face.

“That’s very optimistic of you.” You’re about to bite back when you hear a brief clatter and a weak groan coming from the kitchen. Alarmed, you don’t even bother to hang up on Youngho; he’s still talking about the view of the city from his really big window while you hurry to the source of the noise. You don’t have your gun on hand, so you make do by grabbing an umbrella from the rack by the front door and rushing into the kitchen, holding it aloft.

You almost whack Kim Doyoung with his own umbrella, but you luckily stop yourself before it comes to that. There’s a metal spatula on the floor, and right next to it is a pan on its side, resting on the front of his oven and a half-cooked egg spilling out from its edge, the yolk slowly crawling towards your feet.  

“I’m… going to call you back,” you tell Youngho, who’s still babbling about how great Kim Jungwoo(’s house) is when you hang up.  

“The handle was hotter than I expected.” Kim Doyoung sounds abashed. For some reason, this makes him look… less intimidatingly closed-off and a little more personable. “I should have gotten a towel, or something.”

“Or an oven mitt,” you agree, tugging at the hand towel hanging on the refrigerator handle and picking up the pan. He watches you a little helplessly before deciding he’s being kind of useless and picking up the spatula, using it to edge the pan slowly into the kitchen sink. You both take handfuls of tissue to wipe off the mess of egg on the floor, but all you seem to be doing is spreading it around a little more, so you end up going for a quick solution method and pouring isopropyl alcohol onto it and letting a new batch of tissues soak it up.  

“I don’t want to sound like I’m telling you how to do your job,” he starts slowly. “But don’t cops usually have guns?”

“I was improvising,” you hide the umbrella behind your back. “I left my gun upstairs, and I thought you might have been in trouble.”

“Oh. In that case, I’m sorry for worrying you.”  

“I also don’t want to sound like I’m telling you how to do your job, especially because I, quite frankly, don’t even really understand what that is,” you toss the egg-wet tissues into the bin. “But wouldn’t someone who cooks with a pan that has a metal handle know that they have to hold their pans with protection?”  

“I don’t cook in this house,” he looks a little sheepish now. “I never have.”

“Personal chef, then?”

“No. I just eat out. All the time.”  

“So this huge kitchen space with its fancy appliances is basically your girlfriend’s territory only.“

“Actually, it just came with the house. No one really uses it. Well, until I tried to right now.”  

It dawns on you that the embarrassment shining through his face might be the product of him botching a meal he was trying to cook for you. It’s almost laughable, but you think it’s way too mean to even smile, considering the gesture was pretty polite, although the results were disastrous in themselves. “Let’s… try not to break the tradition of you not using your kitchen tonight. Did you really want an egg for dinner, or was that just a spur of the moment choice?”

“It was more of a that’s the only thing I have in my fridge choice,” he chuckles softly.  

“I guess it would be good to stock up on everything tomorrow if we — you, I mean — are going to be holing up here for the foreseeable future.” You try not to sound too bitter about having a deadline for when you have to leave, even if it kind of hurts your pride, but Kim Doyoung’s face morphs into something apologetic as he slowly rinses the pan and the spatula. “I can do that before I leave. It’d be better if you didn’t leave your house, just to be safe.”  

“How will you get to the grocery, though?”  

“I’ll ask someone to give me a ride.”  

“The person you were on the phone with?” He dries the pan off and sets it on the induction stove again. “Was that your boyfriend?”

“Oh — no, that was my partner. He’s with your brother right now, actually.”  

“I see.” He pauses like he’s weighing out his options before asking, "How is my brother? Is he doing okay?”  

“From what my partner told me, he’s fine. More than fine, actually. Youngho’s been enjoying your brother’s house since he got there.”  

He lets out a soft breath that could probably pass off as a laugh. “That’s good, I guess.”  

You don’t want to entertain an off-handed answer with anything to open another short-lived conversation, so you just go to the refrigerator, opening it to find, as expected, nothing more than a carton of eggs, some pomegranate juice, and a chocolate bar with a ribbon on it. You survey the rest of the kitchen for any indication of rice, but you can’t even see a rice cooker, so you decide you should just double up on the eggs.  

“I’m sorry,” he ends up creating his own conversation starter as you nudge the eggs around with the spatula. “For putting even this on you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you’re sincere about this, and you hope it translates in your tone. “They’re just eggs. And I guess making sure we don’t starve to death is kind of like protection in a way.”

“All the same, thank you, officer.”  

“You’re welcome, Kim Doyoung-ssi. And it’s just ______________. Officer makes it sound like I’m arresting you.”

“Then it’s just Doyoung. Kim Doyoung-ssi makes it sound like you work for me.”

“According to you, don’t I?” His laugh is muffled as he ducks down to get two plates. You use the spatula to stab a haphazard half-line between the eggs, and you tip a serving onto each plate, which he then brings to the kitchen table. “Since you don’t cook, maybe it would be better if I got you some pre-packed food.”  

“Like?”

“Like ramyun. Or chicken wraps. Or those soup packets where all you do is add water.”  

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to not do that well, but the other things sound good,” he concedes. “I haven’t had ramyun in ten years, at the least.”  

“It’s good when you add egg to it. Or you can add kimchi. We should probably get you that, too.”

“I think that should be first priority,” he agrees, stabbing into his eggs; he inhales them to consume, like they’re noodles, which is an admittedly amusing sight. “Considering that’s the lifeblood of every Korean.”

“That, and rice, which you don’t seem to have in here.”  

“I don’t cook, remember? I can’t even remember the last time I used a rice cooker on my own.”

“Well, if you have one, I could teach you before I leave.”  

“That… would be appreciated,” he says slowly, starting to look uncomfortable as he slows down his eating.

“Um — are they not cooked well?” You ask, worried.  

“No, it’s not that. It’s just — I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to leave just because —“  

A loud banging interrupts him, and you both turn your attention to the living room. Doyoung is halfway up from his seat when you shoot up as well, holding out a hand to stop him from going to get the door. He, in turn, gives your umbrella a nervous and unconvinced look as you pick it up and head for the front door.  

It’s not even polite knocking; it’s the sound of someone’s fist assaulting the (very nice) wood of the front door — fast, heavy, and alarming. The closer you get to it, the clearer the voices behind it become.  

“Open up!” The words are slightly muffled, but there’s no mistaking the frantic tone. “Open up, please! Is anyone home? Hello? Someone, please — anyone, please let us in!”

Your hand is on the doorknob before you can think, but something stops you just before you turn it. Keeping Kim Doyoung safe is the highest priority right now, and opening his home up to strangers isn’t exactly at the top of the “what keeps people out of trouble” list. Even if the people behind this door are desperate, you wonder if, with everything that might be going on outside, you should be taking risks like this.  

Your fears are only solidified when the pounding on the door gets louder and more aggressive, punctuating troubling words. “Help us! Please, open the door — they’re coming after us, please!”  

You let go of the doorknob, watching it rattle for a second with the intensity of the knocking, before you move your hand to the deadbolt, fumbling with the little weight on the anchor. You’ve just about slipped it into place when Doyoung’s voice stops you.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demands; there’s no trace of quiet in his words now, and it’s so unlike how he’s been talking to you that it actually causes you to freeze. “Let them in!”

You throw him a look that you sincerely hope suggests how indignant you feel that he’s so willing to let random people in his house when you’d sat waiting for hours outside. “We can’t let people in here that you don’t know. That’s a cardinal rule in keeping you out of harm’s way.”

“They said they need help,” he presses. “Let them in.”

“Kim Doyoung-ssi,” you grit your teeth. “I don’t think you understand —“

“They said something’s after them. They could die out there. Are you going to have that kind of blood on both of our hands?”

The yells on the other side of the door are becoming somewhat incoherent; there’s probably at least two people out there, considering the rate at which the knocks are coming. Your fingers tighten on the deadbolt as you stare at Doyoung, whose expression is unwavering.

“Let them in, officer.”  

A sharp hit to the door breaks you out of your momentary trance, and you groan in frustration as you tug the deadbolt back and yank the door open.

Three bodies collapse onto the floor; you have to step out of the way as the tangle of limbs and heads scrambles into the living room. One guy is pretty much out cold, with another tugging him by the shoulders deeper into the house. The other gets to his feet, trying to get his bearings before fixing his eyes on you.

“Close the door, close the fucking door —“ He yells, panicked. “Hurry, close it!”

You don’t even get a good look at what’s beyond the foyer before your instincts just tell you to slam the door shut; you finally put the deadbolt in place. Another body slams into the wood, but this time, no words follow.

Only vicious snarls, chillingly familiar, come from the other side of the door. 

last night on earth - iii . | kdy

part i, part ii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion.

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but still present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible character death, language word count: 7.6k  

author’s note: been a hot minute since i’ve done anything on this blog thanks to real life issues but A PERFECT UPDATE FOR HALLOWEEN METHINKS!!!!!!!!!! enjoy october, everyone! it’s almost the end of the year and you made it through such a tedious year <3

“Is everyone okay?”  

You turn to find the three newcomers in a heavily panting huddle; one of them is on the floor, his hand clutching his thigh. Kim Doyoung is in front of them, arms outstretched; it’s clear he wants to help them somehow, but he also doesn’t know how to. The result is him looking like a half-hearted scarecrow that’s, for some reason, breathing as heavily as them.  

You can’t blame him, though; you notice that your own chest is heaving, and your grip on the umbrella is so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers made permanent dents on the handle.  

The one who’d been urgently yelling at you to close the door is who responds with a brief but firm nod.  

“Thank you,” his voice sounds coarse, like he hasn’t drunk water for days. “You saved our lives.”  

“We just opened the door,” Doyoung says, voice back to its normal quiet and fairly calm state. “Hardly heroic.”

“Still more than what anyone else has done for us. We’d been trying to find someone who’d help us for more than an hour. We would have died if you hadn’t opened the door.”  

Doyoung spares you a tiny glance that you don’t meet; you turn your back to him, now locking the deadbolt without protest or interruption. When you face the group again, your eyes land on the floor; the other guy hasn’t picked himself up, and his head is resting precariously on the knee of one of his companions, face contorted in pain.

“What’s wrong with him?” You ask, using the umbrella to point to him.

“Like I said,” the first guy’s voice grows a little softer, and maybe a little sadder. “We’d been running for a while. Those things that were after us… well, they were a lot more aggressive than we thought they would be. We got jumped near Gangnam Station, and one got its teeth into Sungchan’s leg. He’s more or less okay, apart from the fact that it’s been getting harder for him to walk, which is why we needed to find someplace safe to stop.”

Those things. The source of all of this chaos was still shrouded in mystery. Your mind briefly flashes back to your disgusting encounter with that cannibal businessman, digging his teeth into that poor lady’s skin, and you press a finger to your mouth briefly to stop the little egg you’ve ingested from coming back up. It’s Doyoung’s voice that brings you back to reality.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. I’ll help you upstairs, and you guys can clean up and rest.”  

He takes Sungchan’s legs, and the other two take him by the shoulders again; you cringe at the horrible sound of pain that he makes. They make some sort of haphazard human gurney, slowly easing him up the stairs. You’re still frozen for the most part, watching them haul what is essentially dead weight up the stairs while emotions assault you every which way. Deciding standing in front of the stairwell is pretty unproductive, you make your way back to the kitchen, ditching the umbrella back in its receptacle on your way.  

The eggs are still on your plates; Kim Doyoung’s plate is almost as untouched as yours, and you pick up your fork, debating on whether or not to continue eating. It’d be a waste to not, especially since there’s not much food left and you’re slowly starting to realize that it really won’t be too easy to procure more food in the state the city is in at the moment. Still, you’re out of an appetite, and you don’t think it would be nice to offer this food to guests considering it’s been touched to some degree. The end result is you simply having a staring contest with your eggs, fork tightly in hand.  

The house is quiet; someone, probably Doyoung, likely turned off the television, since you can’t even hear the faint drone of the news channel. You let out a heavy sigh and are a little surprised when it comes out so sharp that you actually feel a bit of pain in your nose.  

You’re… angry. No — it’s not that intense of a feeling. Maybe frustration is better — frustration stemming from confusion is bubbling up in your stomach.  

Your job is to protect the people; you know this, live by it as much as you can. That, on its own, made the choice you should have taken at the door simple. People were in trouble, and you should have helped them. But you also had a huge job; you had to protect this one particular person, and letting strangers in, risking his life in opening that door really was not the way to do it. Still, did that mean that you were supposed to prioritize Kim Doyoung’s life just because he was richer? Did not doing your assignment also mean you were doing something wrong? And were you really supposed to save everyone just because you felt that was your job?

The headache you gave yourself caused you to stab a piece of egg on your plate viciously before taking your plate up off the table. When you turn to head for the garbage disposal, though, you find Kim Doyoung standing at the doorway, watching you with an unreadable expression.  

Nothing comes to mind for you to say, so you just place the plate down onto the counter.  

“You don’t have to feel bad. About hesitating to open the door. I get it.”

“I don’t feel bad,” you lie, tossing the fork back onto the plate; the clatter it makes is loud and obnoxious. “I still don’t think we should have let them in. My job is to protect you.”

“I’m safe, aren’t I?” He lets out an incredulous laugh that lacks mirth as a whole. It’s once again a little uncharacteristic for him, but it comes and goes so quickly that you don’t have time to dwell on it either.  

“You won’t be for long if I have to keep opening the door for everyone that knocks. You’re the number one priority here, and your house isn’t a fortress for everyone to hole up in. The more we let people in, the more you’re exposed to problems, and I’m supposed to stop that from happening.”

“You said yourself that you’re not my bodyguard. This is a temporary job.” He steps further into the kitchen. “You’re a cop. That doesn’t change just because you’re under my roof. If you want to protect people, protect them — people like them. I’d prefer it. It’d be for the best.”  

“I can’t save everyone either. That’s just not how it works. If the mayor wants you alive, there has to be a good reason, and I’m not going to be the one that gets you killed by poor decisions.”  

“And you’re going to be okay with that? Knowingly letting people die because you have to protect some guy you’ve never met and don’t care about?” He presses, his mouth giving way to the thinnest, slightest of frowns.  

You’re taken aback, to say the least. You hadn’t been expecting gratitude, but you also weren’t expecting a lecture — at least not one from someone other than you. This only exacerbates your frustration, and you end up feeling slightly defiant.

“Yes, I’m okay with that,” it feels like a lie again, but your pride is swelling to immense proportions. The only thing you can do is tell yourself that your answer is the right one. “If that’s what it takes, then yes. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary.”  

“Well, I’m not okay,“ he says firmly. “I can’t live knowing people died because of me. And I’m aware that I don’t deserve to be saved at the expense of others, so don’t go through the trouble.”  

There it is again — that strange, darkly heroic aura he gives off, that he’s not worth protecting. The silence that falls between you is interrupted somewhat by the groans and footsteps coming from upstairs. The entire house feels stuffy now, and not just because there’s more than double the occupants there had been an hour ago.

“Look,” Doyoung manages to break the silence again, a heavy sigh leaving him. He’s rubbing his face, and when his hand falls back to his side, you note the darkness around his eyes. “Forget it. It’s… we’re all on edge, obviously. We just need to rest.”

“You go ahead,” your words are terse, voice distant and robotic. “I need to… do other stuff. Update my partner. I’ll clean up here.”

It sounds like a load of bullshit, and it’s clear that he doesn’t buy it, but he nods anyway, slowly, like he’s still trying to figure out what to say. Instead, he settles on the expected, mundane answer.  

“Goodnight, offi — goodnight, _______________.”

You watch his back as it retreats, and you just stand in front of the counter for what feels like forever before you hear his door shut. Your body goes on autopilot, taking his plate and dumping the eggs, making a half-hearted mental note to figure out what the safest route to the nearest grocery store is after this.  

You do the dishes, only slightly derailed by the fact that there is literally no dishwashing rack out; it kind of makes sense that he wouldn’t have to do the dishes if he doesn’t eat here, you realize, but the thought of that doesn’t curb the annoyance you feel when you have to scale the kitchen counter to reach the rack, which is perched on the highest shelf of one of his cupboards.  

By midnight, you’re worse for wear; you head up to your room and take your phone out again, noticing that Youngho had called you a couple of times and even texted. When you try to call him back, though, it just rings out, which is kind of weird, since he usually has his phone at the ready for any emergencies. You want to worry, but the numbness that comes with tiredness convinces you that he’s probably just enjoying Kim Jungwoo’s hot tub or peeing, or something. 

“Sorry,” you yawn into your phone after his voicemail beeps. “Had a situation over here. We have three new civilians to take care of. Unfortunately, Kim Doyoung’s house has become a human sausage fest.” You pause because you know he’s going to need a bit of time to laugh at that; a small smile grows on your lips too, despite it feeling inappropriate for the situation. That smile slips off the moment you hear soft, pained moans and muffled voices coming from the other room, and you realize that the injured guy is probably next door. “Front yard’s currently compromised, but I’ll check in the morning again, since there aren’t much disturbances, for some reason. Call me when you get this.”

Tossing your phone away, you roll over in bed. There’s still something nagging at you about what Doyoung had said, telling you that you need to give it some kind of attention, but your exhaustion causes you to reject it, and you fall into a dreamless but still somehow troubled sleep.  

Youngho calls at around half-past eight, your ringtone jerking you awake unceremoniously. In your tossing and turning last night, you’d buried your phone under the excessive pillows on the bed, and the call drops before you can find it. A few seconds later, it starts up again, and you pat around hopelessly for another minute before you find it, answering the phone breathlessly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Youngho’s voice comes down the line, drowning out your hello. “I thought you died.”

“I thought you died!” You fire back, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “You didn’t pick up yesterday either.”

“I was enjoying the home theater. There’s no service down in that room, so I left my phone upstairs. The surround system is killer, by the way,” he explains nonchalantly. “What happened to you? You said you’d call me back. Not to sound like the needy boyfriend you’ve always wanted, but I was kind of hoping you’d at least give me a better explanation.”

“There wasn’t much else to tell.” You untangle yourself from the sheets, standing to stretch your back in front of the window. The sky is unusually dark for the morning, especially since fall has just begun; you wonder if there’s a storm coming later. “Three guys came looking for a place to stay. They said… something was after them, and one of them got injured.”

“And you let them in?” Youngho sounds incredulous.

“It wasn’t my decision! Kim Doyoung told me to, and it’s his house, so I didn’t have a choice.”

“And? They’re still there?”

“Well, yeah. What was I going to do, kick them out in the dead of night?”  

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem right, _________________. They could be dangerous p—“  

Your phone makes a shrill noise, and you jerk it away from your ear in surprise; the screen flashes a warning and then goes blank, effectively cutting Youngho off.  

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath. You’d forgotten to charge your phone last night, and the battery had already taken a huge hit from all the game playing and music streaming you’d done outside of Kim Doyoung’s house. You’re plugging the charger into the wall when a soft knock comes from your door, and the man himself steps in.  

“Morning,” his voice is back to that quiet, aloof tone, like last night hadn’t happened at all. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. You?”  

“I slept all right.” He jerks to the door, expression morphing into something sheepish. “I was… standing outside for a little while. I didn’t want to interrupt you on the phone.”  

“Oh. Um — it’s fine.” Your phone dings, signaling to you that it’s charging, and you leave it on the windowsill. “That was just my partner.”

“Is anything wrong at my brother’s house?”

“Apart from the fact that your brother is spoiling my partner? Not much.”  

He cracks a smile before clearing his throat, tugging at the neckline of his sweater. You watch him move, his small hands fiddling with a stray thread that’s sticking out of the knit. The only relief you get in this situation is the knowledge that he’s feeling just as awkward as you are right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally, and it catches you off guard. Your jaw slackens a little, and you grapple with what to say, but he raises a palm to stop you. “I know… I know your job is important to you. Your priorities are different, and… you seem dedicated to your job. The fact that I don’t want to be protected doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been told to protect me.”

Only three men in your life have apologized to you with any modicum of sincerity: your father, who’d pranked you so much into thinking that there was a monster under your bed that you’d lost days of sleep; Youngho, who’d accidentally shot you in the face with a paint gun during the department’s MT (you’re still not sure if this counts because he’d been laughing hysterically while doing so); and Kim Doyoung, who’s currently fiddling with his sweater and watching for your reaction.  

“I…” Your voice comes out broken and gross, and you clear your throat too, but you don’t miss the fact that he straightens up a little. “It’s fine. I’m sorry too. Everything you said last night… you were right, and I knew it.”  

“It’s still not my place to tell you what to do. You’re the expert in this case.”  

“I’m really not,” you smile weakly.  

“You still know more than me.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter now,” You dismiss the cursory part of the conversation with a wave. “The point is that everyone’s safe here. We should probably let go of last night’s guilt.”  

“Letting go of guilt,” he muses; his gaze isn’t on you anymore. In fact, it doesn’t seem like he’s looking at anything in particular at all, and that somehow makes you feel even less comfortable. “Is it that easy?”

“What is feeling guilty going to do? There’s no real point anymore. We just have to keep moving forward.”

“Right,” he comes back down to earth, it seems, and his fingers resume their movements. “Moving forward. About that — we’ve got three more people in this house, and I don’t think I have anything to feed a single one. I don’t know how much further forward we can move without supplies.”  

“Oh god,” you squeeze your eyes shut, kneading at your brow to relieve the sudden headache that comes with the arrival of another predicament. “Shit. Right — okay. You have… cars, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he replies slowly.  

“Great. Can I borrow your least expensive one?”

“You can take whichever you want, but I—“  

“I’ll be down in five, then,” you cut him off, looking over at your now-empty bag and wondering why you’d just asked for time when you don’t have any clothes to change into.  

He nods, stepping back out of the room. Your phone dings to life, and you turn back to it; it starts vibrating off the hook with a steady stream of messages from Youngho, the screen blinking annoyingly in its attempt to catch up.  

[ incoming ] 영호 - STOP HANGING UP ON ME [ incoming ] 영호 - I’m convinced you hate me [ incoming ] 영호 - tough bc you’ll never find a better, more attractive partner and also we’re stuck together for the whole year [ incoming ] 영호 - _______________ can you pick up stop being annoying it’s important [ incoming ] 영호 - are you watching the news??????????? [ incoming ] 영호 - I’m telling chief that I want a partner divorce you’re useless >:(

[ outgoing ] 영호 - my phone died you absolute pain in the ass!!!! [ outgoing ] 영호 - go eat your caviar croissants or something   [ outgoing ] 영호 - what’s on the news

“__________________.” Your head snaps up to find Doyoung still standing by the door, hand on the doorknob. He’s twisting it idly, back and forth, the lock clicking every now and then.  

“Oh — sorry,” you put your phone down, ignoring the fact that Youngho’s name keeps popping up on the notification banner right above a slew of middle finger emojis. “I thought you—“  

“No, it’s fine, I —“  

He stops when your ringtone goes off again; the piano introduction of Heroine is loud and a little embarrassing, and you pick up a pillow to suffocate as much of the melody as you can.  

He smiles, but this time, it almost reaches his eyes. You think that Doyoung’s face suits smiles as long as they’re not half-hearted or sad.  

“More Sunmi?”

“She’s a national treasure,” you defend yourself, pressing the pillow down harder against your phone.  

“Right. I’ll be downstairs.”  

Whatever he’d wanted to say leaves with him as he shuts the door quietly behind himself, and Youngho doesn’t miss the annoyance in your voice when you finally pick up the call. He takes his sweet time getting to the point of the conversation to get even at you.  

“The news says it’s some kind of wack infection. They’re not sure how it’s spreading or how it’s starting, but these people aren’t in their right minds. Remember that guy we saw yesterday?” He’d said when he’d finally gotten to the brunt of his call. “I’m willing to bet my mom’s car he was sick too.”  

“Then what do we do?”  

“We just do what we can. There’s no cure, apparently; I mean, people are still trying to figure it out. All we know is that antibiotics obviously don’t work against viral cannibalism.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I have to go out for some supplies, though.”  

“So, duty relief for you today? At least you’ll get to drive a cool car before you get fired–”

You hang up at this point.

Five minutes later finds you jogging down the stairs, and you spot Kim Doyoung and the guy from yesterday who’d explained what had happened. They were both looking up at the television, wordless beside each other; the screen flashed different, horrible scenes — buildings on fire, abandoned cars crushed against one another, and bodies. So many dead bodies. You see a flicker of disgust flash across Doyoung’s face as the screen zones in on a single, rotten arm, and he turns off the television.

“So,” you try to sound like you’re not minutes away from throwing up either, and the two men turn to you. “Which car am I taking?”  

Doyoung presents you with a key; it’s one of those button-heavy ones that don’t even need to be inserted into the ignition, and you take it gingerly.  

“This is the fancy key to your least expensive car?”

“The price is irrelevant,” he frowns. “What matters is that it works, and it works fast. Minhyung’s coming, by the way. Minhyung-ssi, this is __________________.”  

“I can drive,” the other guy, who you now know is Minhyung, volunteers. You nod, slightly relieved that you won’t have to be the one worrying about driving a car worth more than your life insurance among other things. “We checked outside, too; there’s no one there. I guess as long as they don’t see a target, they don’t care that much.”

“Great,” you push the keys into Minhyung’s open hand. “Let’s get going, then.”

Doyoung walks you both to the door, but instead of stopping by the doorway after he opens it, he steps out onto the porch with you. And down the stairs. And walks towards the car.

“Hold on,” you stop, and he stops too, alarmed. “You’re not coming with us.”  

“What?” He sounds incredulous, like this is the first time he’s considered you might say that.

“It’s too risky.”  

“We’re going to the grocery store. I’m sure I can handle that. ”

“And we don’t know what’s at that grocery store,” you frown. “You have to stay here. We’ll take care of your car. Well, I mean, he will.” You jerk your head at Minhyung, who’s slipping into the driver’s seat.  

“It’s not about the car. I want to help you.”

“And I want to protect someone that’s willing to actually stay protected. Only one of us can get what we want, Kim Doyoung-ssi.”  

He makes a face — at the return of the formal address, at your words in general, you weren’t sure. You sigh, looking back briefly at Minhyung, who’s just started up the car engine; the windows are tinted, but you can see through them enough to know he’s turned towards the two of you, waiting.  

“Look, you called the shots last night, right? I listened to you, and you were right. We got to help people. Let me have this one.” You try to smile weakly, but you think it kind of comes across as a grimace. “At least I can go back to the department and say I did what I could to protect you this one time.”

He stares at you for what feels like ages, but the moment is punctuated with a sigh and a reluctant nod. He steps back up onto the porch, and you offer him a reassuring nod of your own before turning back to the car, tugging the back door open and tossing your uselessly empty backpack inside before going back up to the passenger’s seat.  

Minhyung has the car radio on to the news, but it’s more static than voice, and you just end up dialing the volume back down before putting on your seatbelt.  

“Is Doyoung hyung not coming with us?”

Hyung? How close were they already? “No. I told him to stay. He’ll be fine.”  

Minhyung nods wordlessly, shifting gears into reverse and slowly pulling the car out of the garage. When he turns his face forward, though, he slams down on the break, and an undignified yelp of surprise leaves you.  

Doyoung is at your window, a fist raised to rap lightly on the tinted glass. You roll it down, trying to keep the panic out of your voice when you ask, “What? What is it?”

“Make sure to come back,” he says simply. Your face scrunches up in confusion.

“Of course. It’s just a supply run. Your car will be back in no time; don’t worry.”  

“No; that’s not what I — don’t —“ He sighs. “Don’t go back to the police station. Just come straight back here. Okay?”  

“But I thought you said —“  

“I know what I said last night. I’m saying this now.” There’s a hint of pleading in his voice. “Come back.”

“I — okay,” you agree, altogether befuddled. He lets go of the window, and you slowly roll it back up as Minhyung backs out of the driveway. You try not to keep eye contact with Doyoung, fiddling with your seatbelt even if it’s already fastened, but you know he’s standing at the porch, watching you both drive away with yet another unreadable expression.

You trade the radio noise in for the GPS once you’re firmly on the road, and it’s on silent; your guess is that Doyoung doesn’t like the annoying robotic voice telling him where to go, so you have to make sure Minhyung is looking at the screen from time to time. You like that he isn’t unbearably talkative and is fairly safe as a driver, and you think he looks smart enough, which is always a good bonus, considering that you’re used to Youngho as a driver and as a human being.

The residential area of Apgujeong doesn’t have any big marts nearby, so you end up having to look for CUs and Ministops on the map. Even the nearest one is a good twenty-minute drive away, which seems hardly practical considering you’re in a heavily residential area. Even if you like that it’s quiet, though, it feels wrong and pretty awkward that nothing breaks the extended silence, so despite the fact that you don’t particularly enjoy small talk, you start anyway.  

“Your friend,” Minhyung breaks his gaze away from the road to glance at you before turning back. “Sung… chan? Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits, tongue peeking out nervously to wet his lips. “We’re not… we’re technically not friends. He and that other kid — Donghyuck — go to the same university, I think. We were just in the same bookstore when the fighting and madness broke out.”  

“Oh. So you… you work at a bookstore?”  

“Me? No; I was just there looking for some books for research.”

“Are you a teacher, then?”

“No,” he chuckles the way you would expect; it’s a deep, baritone rumble that’s fairly calming and not at all like the wheezing Youngho does that makes you want to smack him upside the head. “I’m working on a novel.”

“That sounds pretty neat. What about?”

“Well it’s — it’s complicated.” His fingers tighten a little on the wheel. “My editor’s been asking me to write a romance novel — you know, since a lot of people are into that these days. But it’s just… it’s not something I can write about well. I’ve never had a real interest in romance novels, so everything I make just comes out bland.”

“So what do you like to write about?”

“Science fiction, mostly.”

“Anything I may have read before?”

“Depends. How prolific a reader are you?”

“I’m not even sure what prolific means,” you laugh.  

“My books aren’t that big. Mostly because so much editing beyond my reach happens to them, they never look like what I’d wanted them to in the first place.” He sighs, turning into a smaller street. It’s equally empty here, for some reason, but it doesn’t feel like the safe, quiet neighborhood it’s supposed to be. You see a lone woman limping down the sidewalk, and you wonder, briefly, if she’s sick too. You don’t get a good look at her face, though, and Minhyung’s driving at a speed that doesn’t give you much opportunity to look back, so you let it go. “What about you?”

“I’m a cop. I actually got promoted to corporal fairly recently.” See: yesterday, but you don’t think it’s necessary to specify this.

“That’s great; congratulations,” he throws you a small smile. “No wonder you’re so protective of Doyoung hyung.”  

“Yes, well, it’s kind of my job to be.”  

“I can see that. I’m sure he appreciates it. Is that why you didn’t want him to come along?”

“Yeah. I don’t really know if he gets that helping out here more is just going to put him in more danger.”

“Maybe he does, though,” Minhyung’s eyes flit to the screen again; the destination is growing closer. “Maybe he just wants the chance to protect you, too?”

You sit there, staring at the road in front of you, trying to decipher what that means. The CU sign comes into view, and Minhyung slows the car as you approach the entrance.  

“But,” you start carefully. “Why would he?”

“I’m not a romance expert, but isn’t that normal for couples?”

“It is,” you say, your voice small so that he can’t hear how close you are to imploding from embarrassment. “Except we’re not a couple.”

Not for the first time today, Minhyung steps down hard on the brake. You both lurch forward, but no one makes a sound this time; your bodies just lean forward silently and snap back against the seats with soft thuds.  

“Oh. I thought… because you were staying in his house…”

“I’m just here on official business,” you swallow hard, staring out your window so that you both can avoid feeling even more awkward than you already do. “From the police department.”  

“He said… his girlfriend didn’t like people going into her room, so I thought —“  

“Yeah, that’s… that’s not my room. Sorry.”

“Oh.” His voice trails off into almost nothingness. “Sorry.”

He kills the engine, but the both of you just sit there in silence for a little while, letting the strange atmosphere ebb away. Thankfully, he doesn’t press the conversation further, and you step out first, with him following your lead. Your hand is at your waist, fingers brushing against the stock of your gun, but there are no disturbances for the most part, and you relax somewhat. You and Minhyung both head for the store; the little bell that usually jingles to announce a new customer is on the ground outside.  

The inside is fairly empty, too; there are canned goods and flyers on the floor. The microwave is half-open, and you notice that a now-cold sausage is on the dish inside. You start picking up the canned goods, stacking them onto a basket while Minhyung keeps the door open with his foot, bending down to push six-pack bundles of water outside near the front wheel of the car.  

“You think anyone’s in?” He’s whispering, and you don’t know why it feels appropriate to move as soundlessly as possible even if the place is deserted. Shaking your head, you pass him the basket of canned goods, and he starts nudging the water towards the trunk of the car with his feet so he can load them.  

You wander down the aisles, tugging on everything you think you might need — tissues, snacks, toiletries — piling them all up in your arms. The area feels unsettling, though, so you try to pick up the pace, stuffing anything useful between your arms. There’s a weird noise that hangs over the convenience store, and you realize later on that it’s radio static coming from the set behind the cashier’s counter. You guessed whoever was manning the till was in too much of a rush to leave to turn off the radio. Somehow, though, it makes you feel even more uncomfortable, and you quickly hand off the items to Minhyung, who’s having as much trouble cradling the things in his own arms as you.  

You hear it during your second round, when you reach out for a jumbo-sized bottle of shampoo on top of one of the shelves — a low groan that can’t be radio static, can’t be the wind, can’t be Minhyung from outside. A horrible chill runs up your spine as you turn towards the sound slowly, holding your breath.  

A man is standing by the staff room entrance on the other end of the shop; his posture is weak, arms limp by his sides, and he continues to make incoherent noises. It’s clear by his wrecked uniform that he’s an employee here, and it’s even clearer by the bloodstains on the uniform that he’s definitely not okay.  

Thankfully, his back is turned to you, and whatever had drawn him out of the staff room, he clearly couldn’t find; he’s still whipping his head here and there, trying to spot something anomalous, but he hasn’t found the sense to turn yet. Your arm drops, foregoing the shampoo bottle, and you slowly, carefully back away, your fingers twisted into knots as you pray for safety.  

You’re almost by the door when the worst happens; your left foot, dragging backwards against the floor, catches a stray flier and creates a loud, horrible crumpling sound.  

The employee turns his head back to a degree way more than any normal human can, spotting you between the aisles; he lets out a shriek as his body turns the rest of the way with him, and he charges straight at you, arms outstretched.  

“Shit,” your fingers fly to your gun, but he’s moving so quickly that all your body can think of is fleeing. You almost slip on the flier, managing to yank the door open, only to bump into Minhyung, who’s on his way back in and oblivious to what’s happening.

“________________, what —“  

“Move!” You don’t even have time to apologize for pushing him back so hard that he stumbles a little; the rabid employee smacks into the door, and something crunches sickeningly as he does.

“Oh, fuck me—“  

This feels like a horrible semi-dejavu moment, in which you’re yelling at Minhyung to get the car door open, and he’s panicking so much that he has no choice but to tell you to shut up while he fumbles around for the keys — except he doesn’t have a gun, and the employee doesn’t have an old lady to be distracted by.  

He comes barreling out of the convenience store, and he notices Minhyung first — Minhyung, who’s so frazzled by everything that he’s taken out what appears to be his apartment keys instead of Doyoung’s car keys and is trying to fit it into a keyhole in the driver’s side door that doesn’t exist. The employee lunges, and Minhyung effectively drops whatever he’s holding, running backwards with a panicked yell. This doesn’t work out well for him; his foot gets caught in a sizable crack in the road and he falls backwards.  

You leave the passenger’s side, running around the hood of the car while you take out your gun; in your hurry, you don’t get to aim well, and the first shot you fire misses and hits one of the backseat doors of Doyoung’s car. You let out an incoherent groan of frustration that’s drowned out by Minhyung’s more urgent noise; he’s trying to weaponize a bundle of water bottles, but it’s too heavy for him to fling in this position.  

You take another shot; it hits the employee square in the leg, and the close proximity causes the bullet to go straight through. Another disgusting noise sounds as he crumples to the ground, but he’s hardly demotivated, using his elbows and one working knee to advance towards your companion. Another shot — it goes through his chest, but it’s like he doesn’t notice.

“The head, the head!” Minhyung yells, scrambling back on his palms and ass. “Aim for the head, _____________!”  

You raise your arms slightly, taking another blind shot; it’s not a perfectly centered one, but it blows the top off the employee’s head and ends his advance effectively. Minhyung looks up at you, dazed and covered in a smattering of blood.  

“Thanks — oh, god,” he has to turn away to retch, scooting further from the now-limp body and patting around for his apartment keys blindly. He takes your outstretched arm once he finds them, hauling himself up.  

“How did you know a shot in the head would kill them?”

“I didn’t,” he doesn’t let go of your hand, looking a little pale, like he’s trying not to think about how he’d just seen someone die in high definition. His grip on your fingers is painful. “It just seemed like the most logical place to aim.”

He finally locates the keys in his pocket, taking one look back at the body and the water bottle pack that’s now covered in blood too. He grimaces, shaking his head, like he’s convincing himself not to go back for it. You have to pry your hands free from his hold before he ducks into the car.  

The ride home is absolutely silent; neither of you make an attempt to turn on the radio this time, and the twenty minutes going back seems like an eternity. You notice that Minhyung is driving even slower now, for some reason, but this doesn’t bother you.

The urge to call Doyoung hits hard, for some reason; it seemed like a natural course of action, especially since you needed to cushion the blow his emotions would probably take after seeing the hole you made in his car door, but you realize you don’t have his number. You think about calling Youngho too, but you just don’t move, staring dully at the road ahead until Doyoung’s house comes back into view.

Minhyung jogs to the back of the trunk to open it up while you make for the door, ringing the doorbell. When it opens, you’re surprised to see the other kid from yesterday in front of you.

“Where’s Doyoung?” You demand at the same time that he asks, “Where’s Minhyung hyung?”

There’s louder, more pained groaning coming from the second floor. “Doyoung-ssi’s upstairs. Minhyung hyung,” he calls out, pushing past you to help Minhyung with the supplies.  

You take two steps at a time to get to the second landing, noticing that Doyoung’s bedroom door is open. When you peek in, though, he isn’t there; the television is on again, and the news anchor is repeating warnings. Stay indoors. Ration your food. Arm yourselves as much as you can. This is serious, biological warfare.

Hushed voices fill the first floor as the front door shuts; you look down from the banister to see Minhyung and Donghyuck enter the kitchen, cans and water bottles in hand; the rest of the supplies are by the umbrella stand.  

“Doyoung-ssi?” You call out.  

A moment later, his head pops out from the room next to yours; his face looks grim, but he smiles at you nonetheless.

“You’re back. Did you get what we needed?” He steps out, quietly shutting the door behind him. His free hand is gripping an electronic thermometer and a capped syringe wrapped in a wet towel, and you eye them dubiously.  

“Uh — yeah, there’s food downstairs. What’s all that for?”

“It’s for Sungchan. We’re just monitoring his condition. Was the trip okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. Minhyung’s covered in blood downstairs, but,” you raise a hand to still his worry. “He’s fine, too. Maybe a little traumatized, but physically fine.”

“Oh, good.” He nods. “I’m glad for that. Thank you for making the run. And, well,” he inhales, thumb running along the length of the thermometer. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Just doing my job,” you smile tightly.

“I know.” Something like ceramic crashes inside Sungchan’s room, and Doyoung turns his attention to it. “I’ll just… I’ll get that cleaned up.”

“I’ll help them move the supplies downstairs.”  

You both nod, but you watch him go first; it’s only when the door shuts that you head downstairs. Donghyuck and Minhyung have moved most of the stuff, leaving only a few bottles of shampoo and a couple of canned soups by the door. You pick them up and walk into the kitchen, finding the two sorting cans into Doyoung’s relatively empty cupboards. It’s funny that Minhyung’s found himself on the counter, trying to stuff cup noodles into the top shelf where the dish rack used to be. You probably looked equally ridiculous last night.

“Minhyung, you really need to go get changed. Nobody wants undead CU employee blood on their ramyun.”  

He chuckles softly, slipping off the counter. “That was the last I could fit up there, anyway. Donghyuck will help you sort the rest.” Minhyung makes to clap Donghyuck on the back, but the kid evades his touch, looking at Minhyung’s bloodstained palm like he’s expecting it to grow eight extra fingers. “Right. Sorry.”  

You divvy up the food in relative silence, only talking to introduce yourselves and agree on what to set aside for lunch. He keeps turning his attention to the door, like he’s waiting for someone to appear.

“Your friend — how is he? Is he getting any better?”

“I don’t really know,” he admits, emptying a can of soup into a pot and placing it onto Doyoung’s previously untouched induction stove. “Doyoung-ssi’s been checking up on him. I don’t think any of us know what to do, but he said his grandmother had some special medicine for infections that he could try on the wound.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s deep, and he’s been running a high fever we’ve been trying to break since last night. He barely talks, too, and he won’t eat anything. We tried a couple of crackers he had in his bag for his hypoglycemia, but he wouldn’t take them.” Donghyuck sighs, dumping in a little too much salt and pepper into the pot. “I don’t even know what’s happening. We were just there for comic books.”

You help him ladle the soup into bowls before volunteering to call everyone down for lunch, jogging back upstairs. Doyoung clearly hasn’t left Sungchan’s room yet, since his door is in the same position as you’d found it and the television is still going. You shout down to Donghyuck to turn the den’s television on, deciding that he could listen to the news during lunch instead of leaving his bedroom TV on uselessly.

The remote control is on the edge of the bed, and you only need to take three huge steps to get in and reach for it, but it still is technically trespassing, even if all you want to do is help the man conserve some electricity. Still, before you turn the television off, you catch a bit of what the news anchor is saying.

“Remember, it’s imperative that you stay indoors. Avoid contact with these creatures. The virus spreads quickly through the bloodstream, and experts have still not found a cure. Keep any arms or improvised weapons close to you, and make sure to stay away from —“  

Your blood runs cold, and your fingers tighten around the remote control.

The virus spreads quickly through the bloodstream.

Your feet think faster than you, it seems, carrying you out of Doyoung’s room. You bump into a freshly-bathed Minhyung, and he raises his palms up like he’s being arrested.

“What’s with you and all this running?” He manages to ask before you shove him away, skidding down the hall as you pull out your gun. You rattle the doorknob only to find that it’s locked.

“Cover your ears,” you snap at Minhyung, who barely has time to do so before you aim the gun at the door and take a shot.

You can tell why Youngho likes the idea of busting down a locked door; the dramatic effect is so powerful, and you’ve now experienced it firsthand. You don’t have the time to dwell on how cool it is, though, especially since the smell of rotting flesh is what hits you the moment you push the door open.

Doyoung is seated, frozen at the edge of the bed; the syringe is still in his hand, but it’s uncapped now. Sungchan is lying back, pale and sweaty, his pant leg rolled up to reveal a deep, bite-shaped wound on his calf.

“_______________, what the hell are you —“ Doyoung starts, but he falls into a stunned silence when you point the gun at him.

“Come here. Stand behind me.”

“If you’d just explain why you’re holding a loaded gun in my guest bedroom—”

“Can you, for once, do what I’m asking you to do without the running commentary?” You hiss, and he stands slowly. You get a better view of Sungchan’s face, and it’s not pleasant; he’s biting down on his lip, but it’s clear the pain is too difficult to contain, and his eyes are constantly rolling to the back of his head. “Come here.”

“Just calm down.” Doyoung eyes the gun warily. “I have to help him.”

“Doyoung-ssi —“

“He’s hurt, ___________________. Just let me give him the medicine.”

“He’s going to turn into one of them.” You swallow hard. “I heard it on the news. He’s going to die, and then he’s going to turn into… into one of those things.”

Doyoung carefully sets down the syringe on the bedside table, slowly walking over to you. Instead of getting behind you, though, he places his small hand gently on yours; with a little added pressure, he pushes the gun down to face the floor. You look up at him, frustrated and confused, these feelings only exacerbated by the inexplicable calm on his face.

“I know he will.”