❂ The Day Before the official Apocalypse

Sunlight peeked through the half-closed blinds, casting long shadows across the white sheets of the ward. Masaru Takeda, with his overgrown beard and a small scar above his left eyebrow, sat upright on the bed, his legs dangling slightly over the edge, fingers trembling against the mattress. He was dressed in a loose hospital gown.

He sighed, glancing around the quiet room. No beeping machines, no IV drip. Just silence—and boredom.

A doctor stepped in, his white coat unwrinkled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. He looked up and offered a relaxed smile.

“Well, someone looks ready to leave,” the doctor said, approaching with an easy pace.

Masaru gave a lazy nod. “I’ve been ready since the moment I woke up."

The doctor chuckled. “Unfortunately you're perfectly healthy.” He glanced at the chart briefly, then back at Masaru. “No internal issues, it will be fixed in the meantime.”

“So... I can go?”

“You’ll be discharged this evening,” the doctor confirmed. “Paperwork takes time, you know how it is. But you’re good to move around. Stretch your legs a bit if you like.”

Masaru nodded, but added with a shrug, “Yeah, I’ll take it slow. If I move around too much, my legs start acting up again. Last time I pushed it, I couldn’t walk for hours.”

Doctor gave a small nod of understanding. “Good. No need to rush. Just ease back into it.”

Masaru grinned, already sliding off the bed. “Still, best news I’ve heard all week.”

The doctor paused at the door before leaving. “Try not to end up back here anytime soon, alright?”

“No promises,” Masaru called after him with a half-smirk.

~The doctor leaves the room.

Masaru sat still for a moment, staring at the floor. He reached up and scratched at his beard, letting out a sigh. 

But Suddenly —
Bzzt… Bzzt…

His eyes flicked toward the bedside table. His phone vibrated quietly beside a plastic cup of water, its screen glowing dimly.

Yuki – Calling…

Masaru blinked. A beat passed. Then another.

He reached for the phone and held it to his ear.

“Yo,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so early.”

“Good morning, Masaru-sensei,” came Yuki’s voice—calm and respectful, with a hint of familiarity. “I just wanted to check how you were doing in the hospital.”

Masaru leaned back, shifting the phone to his other ear with a faint grunt. “Still breathing. Still ugly. But I’m getting out this evening, they say.”

Masaru’s lips tugged into a small, appreciative smile.

“You’re the only one who even remembered I’m in here,” he continued, scratching absently at his beard. “No flowers, no visits… just you and the beeping machines.”

Yuki chuckled softly on the other end. “You make it sound tragic. But yeah, figured someone should keep you from going completely feral.”

Masaru gave a raspy laugh. “Too late. I’ve already named the IV stand.”

There was a brief pause, both of them sharing that familiar silence—the kind that doesn’t feel empty, just lived in.

“Thanks for checking in, kid,” Masaru said more quietly this time. “Seriously.”

“You always looked out for me back then,” Yuki replied. “This is the least I can do.”

Masaru exhaled slowly, nodding to himself. “Still. Means more than you think.”

Yuki cleared his throat lightly. “So… they’re discharging you soon?”

“This evening,” Masaru confirmed. “Doctor gave me the usual 'take it slow’ talk. Apparently walking too much makes my legs act up again.”

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

Masaru smirked. “I’m fifty-eight, not eighty-five. I can still fry an egg and yell at the TV just fine.”

“Fair,” Yuki replied with a smile in his voice. Then, a slight shift in his tone—hesitant, almost deflecting. “Anyway… enough about you. I, uh… had that interview yesterday.”

Masaru sat up straighter. “Oh? The logistics firm, right? How’d it go?”

A sigh came through the receiver. “Not great. They grilled me about my work gap—kept circling back to it like it was some giant red flag. I tried to explain, but the guy didn’t seem interested. Just nodded and gave me that polite 'we’ll get back to you' line.”

Masaru shook his head, brow furrowing. “Damn suits. Always looking for clean records, not actual people.”

“Exactly,” Yuki muttered. “It just felt like I was already disqualified before I walked in. Like nothing I said mattered.”

Masaru let out a low breath. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

Yuki didn’t respond right away.

“But listen,” Masaru continued, firm now, “one interview doesn’t define you. Hell, ten don’t. You’ve got grit, Yuki. And the kind of awareness most people your age don’t. You just haven’t found the right place yet.”

“You always say that,” Yuki murmured.

“Because it’s true,” Masaru shot back. “You’re not some reject. You’re a late bloomer—and late bloomers burn slower, but longer. Just keep moving. AND—”

~Paused for a while

"Focus on what you love, "he continued, his voice softer now. “You always used to say, ‘Life isn’t about the noise we make, but the silence we fill with the things we love.' ""

Masaru let out a quiet chuckle. “You still chase after those words, Yuki. And you know what? You're the best damn writer I never mentored. A real poet—just trapped in a world too noisy to hear you clearly.”

There was a long silence on the other end—one filled with emotion too heavy for quick replies.

Masaru leaned back against the bed frame, staring out the window with a knowing look in his eyes.

“You’ve got that rare gift,” he murmured. “Don’t let a few closed doors make you forget it.”

Masaru had just finished his line when Yuki’s voice came in.

“Hey,” Yuki said, chuckling. “You know, my father used to scold me all the time—said I had a knack for making life more complicated than it needed to be.”
Yuki paused for a moment and had a small smile as he recollected the moments.
“By the way… I actually dropped by earlier.”

Masaru blinked. “Huh? When?”

“This morning. You were passed out like a rock, man. Figured I shouldn’t wake you up—you looked peaceful for once,” Yuki teased.

Masaru let out a grunt. “Could’ve left a text or something.”

“I left something better,” Yuki replied, a smile in his voice. “Check the bottom drawer by your bed. Wrapped in foil.”

Masaru leaned over with a bit of effort, opened the drawer, and spotted the slightly crumpled foil package. He unwrapped it halfway.

“…A brownie?”

“Not just any brownie,” Yuki said proudly. “Let’s call it… a stress reliever. Homemade. Special recipe.”

Masaru squinted at it. “Special, huh? Should I be worried?”

“Nah, just don’t eat the whole thing at once,” Yuki said casually. “Take a small bite first. You know—ease into it. Helps with the pain, clears the head, slows down time a bit. Like… the world softens around the edges.”

Masaru raised an eyebrow. “You giving me poetry or instructions?”

“Both,” Yuki replied with a grin.

Masaru chuckled, then leaned back with the brownie in hand. He gave it a curious look before stuffing it into his pocket along with a pack of cigarettes from the drawer.

Yuki’s laughter softened through the speaker. “Anyway, I’ll let you get your rooftop ritual in peace.”

Masaru smirked. “You know me too well Kid!.”

“Of course I do,” Yuki replied. “And just so you know—I’ll be drinking tonight. All night. With the old man.”

Masaru blinked. “Your Uncle?”

“Yes,” Yuki said with a grin in his voice. "Would you like to join tonight?"

"Nope!" Masaru denied the offer.

"Well then, Take care" Yuki hangs up the call.

The call clicked off, the line going quiet.Masaru stood there for a moment, phone in hand. Then, with a low grunt, he slipped it into his pocket and turned toward the door. He left the room and walked to the elevator at the end of the hall.

He rode it alone, hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers. When the doors opened again, it was to the hospital’s rooftop garden—technically open to patients, but rarely visited this early.

The rooftop was still damp with sunset dew, while the sky above stretched creamy clear, brushed with soft orange and streaks of gold.

Masaru made his way to the far edge, where no patients sat, no nurses roamed. Just a quiet view of the city below and the railing he always leaned on.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the battered cigarette pack, and lit one with a flick of his lighter.

For a moment, it was peace—thin smoke curling into the air, the hum of the city far beneath.

Then came the noise.

Distant, but sharp—like sneers mixed with shouts. Wet, guttural. Angry. Not the usual sounds of the hospital or the streets. Something... off.

Masaru furrowed his brow. “What the hell?”

The sounds were irritating, rising in pitch and frequency. Like nails on glass, they irritated him. He tried to ignore them as he took a long drag of his cigarette, but he couldn't get rid of the uneasy feeling.

The sounds were irritating, rising in pitch and frequency.
~ Trying to ignore them—but they kept needling in his ears.

He turned, finally, with a grunt.

Across the rooftop, near the stairwell doors, a small group had gathered. A couple of patients were crowding around one of the younger caretakers—Yuto, maybe? The skinny one who always smiled too much.

At first glance, it looked like they were playing rough. Grabbing at him, pushing, swaying. Like some awkward game.

Masaru narrowed his eyes, watching the scene in silence. One of the patients—a tall, wiry man with a crooked back—moved forward and knocked Yuto to the ground. The others pounced, almost gleefully.

"Idiots," Masaru muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose. "They treat this place like a damn playground."

The caretaker didn’t scream. Not properly, anyway. Just muffled shouts, as if he was trying not to draw attention. Masaru figured it was part of whatever nonsense game they were caught up in.

He shook his head and turned away.

Kids these days—no discipline. Let 'em wrestle.

Behind him, the shouts grew more frantic. More… wet.

But Masaru didn’t notice.

Not yet.

After a few moments, he glanced down and took out the foil-wrapped brownie. He unwrapped it with mild suspicion, then broke off a piece the size of his thumb.

He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly as the city buzzed far below and the morning turned a little softer around the edges.

At first—nothing.

Just the usual quiet, the slow burn of the cigarette, and the distant hum of life beyond the hospital.

But then… something shifted.

A strange lightness crept into his limbs, like his bones had been hollowed out and filled with warm air.

The buildings in the distance shimmered—just faintly—as if heat waves were rolling off their edges.

Masaru blinked.

Twice.

The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers.

“…Damn it, Yuki,” he muttered under his breath, a half-smirk crawling across his face despite himself. “You really went all in, huh?”

He straightened, took one last look at the skyline, and shoved the rest of the brownie back into his pocket.

“Alright, time to head back before I start talking to Nothing.”

With slow, careful steps, he walked toward the elevator. As he passed the stairwell door, something caught his eye.

A figure—slumped against the hallway wall just before the turn. It was another caretaker, his uniform faintly stained, one hand clutching his side.

“Help… please…” the man croaked, voice barely above a whisper.

Masaru blinked at him, tilting his head slightly. The hallway lights suddenly seemed too bright, buzzing louder than they should. The man’s voice wavered like it was underwater. It seems like the substance, whatever he’d taken was definitely kicking in.

Masaru smirked, thinking of Yuki. “Hey... you asshole!”

Masaru squinted. “What is this… a prank or something? Some new TikTok garbage?” he mumbled, his words distorted even to his own ears. He tried to laugh, but his voice was empty and faint.

The walls surrounding him seemed too thin, as if they were nearly pulling inward. Like insects caught in glass, the overhead lights buzzed louder, and their glow stretched strangely across the corridor.

The man on the ground blinked slowly, and for a moment, Masaru could’ve sworn his eyes were on the wrong side of his face.

"Goddamn," he whispered, rubbing at his own eyes. "What did Yuki mixed-in?" 

The caretaker reached out, fingers trembling. His eyes were wide—wild with pain. “Sir… help me, they… it bit—”

Masaru raised a hand. “Okay, okay, take it easy. I’m not falling for some performance art. Damn kids are always trying to go viral.”

"Hey, do you mind if I say something?" Masaru lost for the substance, smirking at the situation and states, "Your blood looks like ketchup."

The elevator chimed softly behind him. The doors slid open with a metallic sigh. Masaru turned his back on the bleeding caretaker without a second thought and stepped inside, completely unaware of just how far gone he was… to tell the difference anymore.

The lift started descending slowly.

Then—

Ding.

At the next floor, it came to a stop.

With a slow moan, the doors started to open.

However, something different apart from the normal hallway

SLAM!

Dozens of damaged flesh,  and blood, slammed against the opening.Masaru staggered back.

“What the hell—?”

One of them—a figure with its jaw hanging loose and blood smeared across its chest—moved forward. Before Masaru could react, it lunged.

The weight of it knocked him hard against the elevator wall. Pain shot through his back. His head banged the panel, sending buttons lighting up in chaos. The impact dazed him, dropping him low.

He struggled, shoving against the creature. Its face was inches from his—eyes clouded, teeth gnashing.

Instinct kicked in. Masaru reached out, grabbed the plastic water bottle from the corner of the elevator floor—left from earlier—and slammed it over the zombie's head.

“Damn it!” he cursed, eyes wide.

Panicking, he twisted and drove his elbow into the zombie’s neck, forcing it sideways. The creature growled, snarling inches from his face.

With a burst of adrenaline, Masaru threw his knee upward—hard into its gut—and then slammed his fist right into the side of its skull.

The impact cracked bone. The zombie reeled backward, off balance.

Seizing the moment, Masaru grabbed the metal handrail lining the elevator wall and swung his weight, driving the creature face-first into the doorframe with a sickening.

CRACK

It slumped, half in, half out.

Snarls echoed from the hallway.

Masaru kicked its chest, shoving it out—but the leg jammed the doors while he was trying to close the elevator door.

Ding. Ding.

“They just keep coming…” he muttered.

With a growl, he kicked the leg—once, twice—until it snapped free.

The elevator closed.

Breathing ragged, Masaru fell back against the elevator wall. His hands were shaking. His knuckles were bloodied. His shirt was torn.

He looked at the blinking buttons on the panel. The elevator was moving again.

He didn’t wait.

He slammed the STOP button, stopping it mid-descent.

Silence.

He wiped blood from his brow with the back of his wrist.

“Alright then…”

His finger hovered over the panel.

And he pressed B2 – Basement.

Because if there was any place to hide—or find a way out—it sure as hell wasn’t up here.

“…Perfect." He is back to his senses now.