Jin stared at the prompt floating in his vision.
[Contract with Zombie established. Summon bound.]
The red words burned for a moment, then faded, leaving only the cold weight of what he'd just done. His roommate—or what remained of him—stood motionless by the overturned sofa. The elongated limbs, the pale grey skin, the claws that had nearly torn through Jin's door an hour ago—all of it now held still, waiting.
Jin exhaled slowly. His left hand throbbed where the Crimson Book mark had settled into his skin. He flexed his fingers, watching the faint red lines pulse once, then dim.
It's done. No going back.
He gave a mental command: Step forward.
The Zombie moved. One step, then another. The movements were jerky, mechanical—like a puppet on strings. But it obeyed.
Jin circled it cautiously, noting the details he'd missed in the chaos of the transformation. The thing that had been his roommate was taller now, at least six and a half feet, its spine curved and twisted. Muscles had swollen beneath the pale skin, dense and corded. The fingers ended in black, chipped claws.
Not human anymore. Not even close.
He tested another command: Raise your arm.
The Zombie lifted its right arm, slow and stiff.
Extend claws.
The nails elongated another inch, darkening to a matte black. Jin studied them, then looked at the bedroom door—the one he'd barricaded himself behind while the thing had clawed through the wood. Splintered gouges marked the frame.
It would have gotten through eventually.
He dismissed the claws with a thought. The nails retracted.
A new sensation tugged at his awareness—a presence at the edge of his mind, like a second heartbeat. He focused on it and felt the bond tighten: the Summon's existence, its location, its basic state. The connection was thin, but it was there.
Deathbound. If I die, it dies. But what happens if it's destroyed?
The Crimson Book offered no answers. Jin filed the question away for later.
He looked around the apartment. The front door was still locked, the windows still covered with the gray fog that had swallowed the city. The Eye had vanished after the initial red light, but the weight of its presence lingered in his memory—vast, watching, indifferent.
His gaze fell on the kitchen. The refrigerator was still intact, though the contents were limited. He'd been meaning to go shopping before all of this. Now…
Now I need to figure out how to survive.
He moved to the kitchen, the Summon following a few paces behind. Jin opened the fridge: a carton of eggs, some vegetables starting to wilt, a few bottles of water. The freezer held frozen dumplings and a bag of ice. Not enough. Never enough.
While he inventoried, his mind worked through the implications of what had just happened.
The Crimson Book gives survivors the ability to bind Zombies. But how many others have figured that out? And the ones who didn't…
He glanced toward the window, where the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. The silence outside was absolute. No sirens, no helicopters, no traffic. Just the occasional distant scream, already fading into memory.
The city's cut off. Rescue isn't coming.
He needed a plan. First priority: secure the apartment. Second: scavenge supplies. Third: understand what the Summon could do.
He grabbed a kitchen knife—a heavy cleaver, balanced and sharp—and tucked it into his waistband. Then he turned to the Summon.
Come.
It followed him to the front door. Jin pressed his ear against the wood, listening. Silence in the hallway. No scratching, no moaning. Just the hum of his own blood in his ears.
He unlocked the door slowly, nudged it open a crack. The corridor was dark, the emergency lights dead. At the far end, something dark smeared the wall—dried blood, or something worse. No movement.
Clear for now.
He stepped out, the Summon close behind. Six apartments on this floor. Two elevators, both dark. A stairwell door at the far end, propped open by a fallen ceiling tile.
I need to know what's on this floor before I go anywhere else.
He moved to the first door, the Summon blocking his left side. No sounds from inside. He knocked once, waited. Nothing.
Could be empty. Could be a Zombie waiting.
He tested the door handle. Locked. He looked at the Summon.
Break it.
The Summon's claw extended, dark and sharp. It drove the blade into the gap between door and frame, twisted. Metal groaned, splintered, and the lock gave way with a sharp crack.
Jin pushed the door open, the Summon entering first.
The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn. He found a flashlight on a nearby table—dead. He clicked it off and moved by the dim light filtering through the fog.
The living room was undisturbed. A coffee cup sat on the table, half-full, a skin of film across its surface. The owner had left in a hurry—or never made it back from the initial chaos.
He cleared the rooms methodically: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. No Zombies. No survivors. But in the kitchen, he found what he needed—canned goods, rice, a few bottles of water.
Jackpot.
He grabbed a backpack from the closet and loaded it. Not a full haul—he'd come back for the rest—but enough to stretch his supplies.
As he worked, he felt the Summon's presence at the edge of his awareness, a constant weight. He glanced at it, standing motionless in the corner.
What else can you do?
He studied its form, the way the flesh seemed denser than it should be, the subtle gleam beneath the skin. On a whim, he picked up a metal pan from the kitchen and held it toward the Summon.
Take it.
The Summon's claw wrapped around the pan. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a new prompt appeared in his vision.
[Common metal material detected. Proceed with fusion?]
Jin's eyes narrowed. Fusion?
He focused on the word, and a new window expanded:
[Fusion: Summon can absorb compatible materials to strengthen itself. Progress toward material mastery grants skills. Feedback enhances host.]
It gets stronger by eating metal? And I benefit?
He looked at the pan in the Summon's grip, then at the kitchen around him. Pots, pans, the refrigerator casing, the metal frames of the cabinets. All of it, potentially fuel.
This changes things.
"Proceed with fusion," he said aloud, testing the command.
The Summon's flesh rippled. The metal pan began to deform, sinking into the creature's palm like wet clay. Dark veins spread up its arm, and the fusion prompt updated in real-time:
[Common metal fusion progress: 1%… 3%… 7%…]
The pan was gone in seconds, absorbed completely. The Summon's claws seemed sharper, the skin a shade darker.
And Jin felt it—a pulse of warmth, a thread of strength feeding back into his own body. Not much, but real. His muscles felt denser, his limbs lighter.
It works.
He grabbed another pan, a set of utensils, anything metal he could carry. The Summon absorbed it all, the fusion progress climbing.
[Common metal fusion progress: 42%… 58%… 79%…]
When the kitchen was stripped of everything metal, the progress stopped at 99%.
[Common metal fusion progress: 99% toward skill acquisition. Additional common metal required.]
One percent left. I need more.
He scanned the apartment. The bathroom had a metal towel rack, the bedroom had a metal bedframe. He stripped them both, feeding the pieces to the Summon until finally—
[Common metal fusion complete. Skill acquired: Claw.]
The Summon's hands convulsed. The claws extended, longer now, edged with a metallic sheen. When Jin tested them against a wooden chair, they sheared through it like paper.
This is the advantage. While others are hiding, I'm getting stronger.
He checked the backpack—full, but there was still room. He finished loading supplies from the apartment, then moved back to the hallway.
As he stepped out, something moved at the far end. A shadow, low to the ground, disappearing into the stairwell.
Jin froze, the Summon shifting to block him. The hallway was silent again.
Something's on this floor. Something alive—or undead.
He weighed his options. Go back to his apartment, secure what he had, plan his next move. Or push forward, clear the rest of the floor, and see what that shadow was.
The rational part of him—the lawyer who'd spent years calculating risk—said to retreat. Consolidate. Wait.
But the fog wasn't lifting. The Eye wasn't returning. And somewhere in the city, other survivors were making their own choices.
If I wait, they get stronger. I need to move faster.
He looked at the Summon, at the claws still slick with sawdust from the chair.
One more apartment. Then we regroup.
He moved toward the next door, the Summon at his shoulder, and the shadows of the hallway swallowed them both.
---
End of Chapter 2