He turned to follow Samir inside—
And froze.
Everyone was still asleep.
Samir on the floor by the door. Taj on the couch, snoring. His daughter wrapped in her blanket. Vikram in the chair.
Exactly where they'd been before.
Reyan's breath caught in his throat. He spun back to the balcony. The street was no longer empty. It was packed with infected. Dozens of them, shambling, groaning, searching. Just like last night.
And in the middle of the street, a man was running.
He looked like he was in his forties, wearing torn office clothes, limping badly. Blood soaked through his pant leg. He kept looking back over his shoulder, terror written across his face.
One of the infected stood perfectly still near an overturned car, staring up at the balcony. Staring directly at Reyan.
The man ran past it, swinging a metal pipe wildly. The pipe connected with the infected's skull with a sickening crack. It dropped instantly.
The man didn't even look. Just kept running.
"Help!" he screamed, looking up at Reyan. "PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME!"
The infected turned as one. Like a wave crashing, they surged toward him.
The man stumbled, caught himself, kept running. But his leg gave out. He fell hard on the pavement.
"NO! NO, PLEASE—"
They were on him in seconds.
Reyan wanted to look away. Couldn't.
The man's screams tore through the air — raw, primal, begging. "HELP ME! OH GOD, PLEASE—"
Hands grabbed him. Pulled him down. Teeth sank in. The screams turned to wet gurgles, then to nothing.
But the worst part was how long it took.
The man kept moving for almost a full minute. Kept trying to crawl away even as they tore into him. Kept reaching out, fingers clawing at the pavement.
Then he stopped.
The street went quiet again. Just the sound of feeding. Wet. Methodical.
Reyan stood frozen on the balcony, hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles went white.
His hands started shaking.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."
He looked back at the sleeping group. Then at the street. Then at his hands, which wouldn't stop trembling.
It hadn't been real. None of it had been real. His daughter hadn't woken up. Samir and Taj hadn't come to the balcony. The street had never been empty.
He'd been standing here alone, talking to people who weren't there, seeing things that didn't exist.
The hallucination had felt so real. Every word of the conversation, every expression on their faces, the relief in his chest when he thought the infected were gone—all of it had been his mind desperately trying to give him hope. Even if that hope was a lie.
Reyan sank down against the wall, his legs giving out. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. How long had he been standing there? How long had he been talking to himself?
He'd killed his wife. Watched strangers die. Ignored a woman's screams as she was torn apart. His mind was fracturing under the weight of it all.
"Papa?"
He jerked his head up. His daughter stood in the doorway—actually stood there this time, eyes heavy with sleep, blanket dragging behind her.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
Was he? No. He was breaking. Coming apart at the seams. Seeing things that weren't there, having conversations with ghosts.
"Yeah, baby," he lied, forcing himself to stand on shaking legs. "Papa's okay. Just tired."
She studied him with those too-knowing eyes. Seven years old and she'd already learned to spot lies. "You should rest."
"I will. Soon. But first—" He glanced at the others, still sleeping. Real this time. He was almost sure they were real. "First we need to make a plan."
His daughter nodded and went to the kitchen for water. Reyan stood there, gripping the wall for support, and tried to remember what was real and what wasn't.
The infected below were real. His dead wife was real. The plan to reach the car was real.
But his mind? His mind was becoming the most dangerous thing in this apartment.
And there was no way to barricade against that.