As the sun rose from the east, its golden rays spilled gently through the broken windows of the decrepit school, casting long slashes of light across the scuffed linoleum floors and cracked walls. Warmth trickled in at last, brushing over the cold concrete like a forgotten memory. For a brief moment, it made the place feel almost human again.
But the illusion never lasted.
Zombies still roamed the outer perimeter—distant groans and shuffling feet served as the haunting morning chorus. This once-ordinary cafeteria had become their shelter. Or perhaps, their prison.
Inside, the surviving students began to stir.
Some awoke slowly, clutching half-eaten biscuits or scraps of the food they were given before they slept.
Others blinked up at the ceiling, silently mourning the world that had vanished. The moment of waking—the fragile in-between—was always the hardest. For just a heartbeat, it felt like they were back in the normal world. Then reality returned like a slap to the face.
Today marked the eleventh day since the apocalypse began. And still, many hadn't truly adjusted.
Felicity raised her head from a desk she'd fallen asleep on, strands of her blonde hair tumbling over one eye in soft, messy waves. For a moment, the tousled look lent her a striking, almost disarmingly cute presence. But it disappeared the instant she reached for her baseball cap, slid it firmly into place, and pulled her familiar mask of cold indifference over her face.
Emotion, unshielded, was too dangerous these days.
Across the room, Nero stood leaning against the graffiti-tagged wall, arms crossed. He'd taken over the watch from her sometime in the dead hours, standing silent in the half-light while the others slept. When she looked up, his lips curled into a warm, lopsided smile.
"Morning," he said, voice low, friendly.
Felicity glanced at him, then instinctively turned her gaze toward Merek.
He sat on a bench near the window, back hunched, one knee drawn to his chest while the other leg stretched out in front of him. His head rested behind his knee, face half-hidden in the shadow of his hood. As always, he looked like he was trying to disappear into himself.
A short distance away, Tevin sat perched on the edge of the cafeteria counter—where food used to be served before the world ended. He stared at the empty air in front of him, unmoving.
He wasn't daydreaming.
More likely, he was deep inside his status panel, trying to make sense of his skills or figuring out how to use them in tandem.
The light crept farther into the school, stretching across blood stained chairs and dented lockers, illuminating the ruins of their former lives.
The eleventh day had begun.
"Can we cook?" Carla asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she huddled close to her small circle of friends, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her wide eyes, rimmed with relief, were fixed squarely on Felicity.
The question cut through the quiet like a spark in dry grass.
Every pair of ears that had already awakened perked instantly, heads turning, eyes locking on Felicity, Nero, and Tevin, the unofficial leaders of their ragtag group. Hope flickered in their gazes, tentative and hungry. Not just for food, but for normalcy.
Everyone knew who made the decisions here, whether it was said aloud or not. But they also knew that unity was… delicate. Fractured even, especially after what had happened the night before.
Merek still hadn't moved from the bench, silent and brooding. Whispers had circled around him like vultures. Some thought he was into something dark, freaky even—how could you not, when he spent so much time in the company of someone as beautiful, enticing and strong as Felicity?
Carla had long informed them of Riven's death.
In a world where survival was the currency, being in a relationship with someone like her was the equivalent of hitting the jackpot. The same held true for the boys—especially those who were still easy on the eyes.
And while Merek wasn't as classically handsome as Tevin, with his smirking charm, or even Nero, with that quiet, top boy charm, there was something else about him. The way he carried himself. The way his "knights", those eerie, armored wraiths, stood motionless by the door. His calm strength wrapped around him like a fog of mystery.
"Can we?" Nero repeated, his gaze meeting Felicity's, measured and calm.
Tevin didn't speak, but the same question glimmered in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly toward Felicity, as if saying, We all want to know.
"I have a Job," Carla said, fidgeting nervously under their scrutiny. "It's a common-grade support type—Cook. I…I can make good meals."
The silence that followed was punctuated only by a collective gulp, audible from all corners of the wide hall.
Stomachs grumbled.
Eyes lit up. Someone leaned forward, like they could already taste it.
Just hearing the words sparked vivid, desperate fantasies. Butter melting on golden batter. The hiss of oil in a pan. The comfort of warmth and familiarity.
"I can make waffles and fried eggs," Carla repeated, more confidently now.
Felicity turned her head slowly and fixed Carla with a look as sharp as a thrown blade. There was no malice in it, but it was the weary, bone-deep stare of someone teetering on the edge.
Even she, the one who never broke, looked like she might just cry at the idea of a real breakfast.
A shiver passed through the group.
"What if the aroma attracts the zombies?" a student muttered from the back, his voice shaking.
"They're dead people," another girl snapped, a little louder than intended. "How can they even smell food?!"
Her voice hung in the air for a moment—until one of the Vultures glanced over.
The effect was immediate.
The girl froze mid-breath. Her skin prickled as though ice water had been poured down her back.
Goosebumps rose all over her body as that cold, assessing look passed through her, like she'd just volunteered herself for something terrible.
No one said a word after that.
The silence returned, heavy and full of scentless hunger.
….
The smell hit first, even before the light.
A warm, sweet scent drifted into the room, thick with butter and vanilla, soft like a memory.
The waffles were nearly done, their golden crust crisping, steam curling with the scent of toasted batter and melting sugar.
Behind it came the savory pull of fried eggs, subtle but rich, that nutty, browned edge of egg white and the silken promise of soft yolk, kissed with a hint of oil and the faintest crackle of heat still hissing from the pan.
Merek's eyelids fluttered. A small grunt. Then a slow stretch.
It wasn't time to wake up.
But breakfast was calling, and it didn't ask twice.
Merek lifted his head to the one who dropped the meal on his table. It was Felicity.
From a distance, Nero watched like a hawk.
Merek sniffed, his eyes grew wide. "You cooked!"
Those words rank like a bell.
Everyone froze.
"You should have woken up sooner and said no. I had to bear the burden alone. Eat up, you've earned it."
Merek scoffed but dug in nonetheless. However, what Veyra told him hung like a shadow at the back of his mind.