The alarm went off. The sharp noise sliced through the darkness. I reached out reflexively and gripped my smartphone. Pure instinct—the same way I used to wake up in the shelter at the sound of a rustle by a breached door, instantly drawing a knife.
I threw back the covers, stood up, and drew the curtains. Beyond the fogged glass of the balcony, the dawn was breaking gray and murky. The living room was warm—I hadn't spared any expense on the boiler, so I could walk around in just my underwear. After the end of the world, such luxury would belong to a tiny few, but right now, it cost mere pennies.
I stared blankly at the droplets sliding down the glass as the remnants of sleep finally dissolved into the gray morning. I went to the bathroom. Relieved myself, drank some water, and got dressed.
I threw my laptop, gym clothes, sneakers, and boxing gloves with wraps into my backpack and headed down. I drove the Sorento out of the residential backstreets and set a course for Pusan National University Station.
I parked in the lot and went up to the second floor of a nearby cafe. I sipped a latte while scrolling through the news on my laptop. While I had spent the night wandering through city ruins in my dreams, the world continued to roll along its worn-out tracks.
Prices rising, wages stagnant, unemployment, low birth rates, an aging population. The criminal reports were full of grit. The common folk were backed into a corner, while politicians puffed out their chests and built grand plans against the backdrop of public rage.
But the dead hadn't risen yet to offer the living a seat at the dinner table—as the main course. Not here, not abroad. It felt like the world was already in the gutter and couldn't get any worse, but in 47 days, the dead would stand up. The living would be mowed down like straw, and the era of rotting zombies would begin.
Like termites hollowing out a house's supports, civilization would collapse under the feet of corpses. Survivors would scatter to the winds. Having returned to the past and preparing for the finale alone, I secretly hoped, as I always did: Let me be wrong this time.
Toiling on a construction site would still be better than living through the apocalypse. I had over a billion won in my account and the winning lottery numbers for next month in my pocket. With that kind of money, one could live like a king in a normal world.
But there would be no miracle. What happened in the previous five lives would happen in this one. No exceptions.
I closed the laptop and opened a legal search app on my phone. I scanned the profiles: former judges and prosecutors with powerful connections, law school grads with ambition and high win rates. I chose one who was free this morning and booked a slot.
I sat in the cafe a bit longer, grabbed a quick bite of spicy kimchi stew at a nearby joint, and drove to the legal district near Gyodae Station. The buildings along the road by the courthouse were literally plastered with signs—it seemed every lawyer in Busan had gathered here.
In this cramped "red ocean," I found the right name and headed up to the second floor. I was met by a stern, middle-aged man. The type people say lives by the book. "Attorney Hwang Chaun."
We exchanged greetings. I tucked his business card into my pocket and got straight to the point. I told him I wanted to get a friend out who was stuck in the detention center for a fight. Former judge Hwang adjusted his glasses and nodded.
"What is your relationship to Lee Junsok?"
"We went to university together."
"Not a relative?"
"No."
"You wish to retain counsel on his behalf?"
"He doesn't know yet. I just want to help, so I came to you."
"He hasn't hired defense yet?"
"I don't know. Is that a problem?"
"Well, we can work in tandem with someone, but I can only sign a contract with Lee Junsok himself or his family."
"Tell him Yoon Gangjun, his classmate, sent you. He’ll sign. The money is mine. How much do you need for a retainer?"
"Hmm."
Hwang Chaun rubbed his chin with interest, studying me. I drank his terrible coffee and studied him just as closely—catching the professional sharpness in his eyes.
Initially, I wanted to go to the visitation with the lawyer. Но while driving here, I imagined Junsok in a prison uniform behind bars and changed my mind. If I went now, I’d feel awkward, and he’d feel like trash. Neither of us would be able to look the other in the eye. I wanted to meet him like before—when he was free.
"Lee Junsok has a good friend. No retainer for now. I’ll go to the detention center first and speak with him."
"When will he be out?"
"Hard to say... If he was locked up for assault, it’s a serious matter. I’ll look at the files and give you an answer."
We spoke a bit longer. I went outside and checked my watch. Exactly 25 minutes had passed. I hadn’t dealt with lawyers before, so I didn't know if that was fast or not, but I liked Hwang’s businesslike approach. He worked alone, without a staff—evidently, business wasn't booming. But since he refused a retainer until he studied the case, he had a conscience. Or professional pride. At the very least, he wasn't a scammer.
In the parking lot, my phone rang.
"We’ll be there by 3 PM. Does that work?"
It was the firm installing the iron gates. Two hours later than agreed, but whatever. The gym equipment company sent a text—they’d be there at the same time.
"That means I have time to warm up."
I drove back toward the university. I needed to sharpen my gut and instincts—you can't train those with just weights and running.
*****
DING!
I pushed the glass door of the boxing gym. The timer on the wall greeted me loudly, as if I’d already stepped into the ring. I said I wanted to sign up. A pot-bellied, middle-aged coach put down his mitts—he was just taking a series of hits from a gray-haired old lady—and walked over to me.
"Have you boxed before?"
"A couple of months, as a hobby."
"Ah, so you know the basics."
I filled out the form and paid the fee. I went to the locker room, which smelled of sweat, with worn-out gear hanging on hooks. I tightened my laces and wrapped my hands. A forgotten sense of resolve stirred inside me, like before a fight.
I warmed up with the jump rope, put on gloves, and approached the bag.
PACK!
PACK-PACK!
The strikes into the forty-kilogram heavy bag echoed in my arms with a pleasant weight.
In the apocalypse, fists are almost useless. Both looters and survivors always carry some kind of weapon. I’m no exception. If you have a piece—great. If not—take a kitchen knife or a baseball bat if you want to live. You won't take down even a weak zombie with bare hands, let alone raiders. The human skull is damn tough. If a fist meets bone, the fist always breaks.
But boxing footwork and a sense of timing are huge helps in a real fight with weapons. Besides, bag work is both cardio and an excellent stress release. The technique I’d honed in previous lives returned quickly, but my lungs weren't keeping up. Before the end of the three-minute round, I dropped my hands and stood still.
"Ha... ha..."
I rested my hands on my knees, hungrily gasping for air. I took off the gloves and wiped my face with a towel. I drank from the cooler and looked around. A young guy in front of the mirror was shadowboxing; an idol music video played on the TV. The ring in the corner was empty. I looked at an old headgear hanging on the ring post.
The gong sounded again.
DING! I put my gloves back on and tore into the bag again.
*****
The truck with the heavy doors arrived early. I showed them where to install, and the workers began digging the posts. While they were busy, the rest of the orders started trickling in one by one. The delivery guys just dumped everything on the first floor—lugging it to the third wasn't their job.
Immediately, two trucks with materials for the perimeter wall arrived. The camera specialists showed up. I bolted between the floors and the roof, supervising the process. Two meatheads appeared—the home gym installers. I led them to the third floor, showed them the room, and they started hauling iron. Rubber flooring, steel frames, plates... The guys ran up and down the stairs in silence, not saying a word. I was glad I hadn't skimped on the installation fee. On my own, I would have spent days, but they knocked it all out in a couple of hours.
The perimeter wall grew before my eyes like something out of Minecraft. They finished with the cameras quickly, too—drilling holes in the concrete took the longest. By sunset, all the workers had left, having been paid. I slid the massive iron bolt shut. Now my lair resembled a fortress.
I started clearing the clutter on the first floor. Among the boxes, I stumbled upon the one that had arrived early. I cut it open. Twenty tactical knives and twenty sets of black throwing knives. Tactical hatchets and a wooden target were packed separately.
I set the target up in the gym on the third floor, took a tactical knife, and stepped back to the wall. I gave it a light swing.
SWISH. The short blade gleamed coldly in the lamplight, like a predator's fang. The knife fit my hand perfectly. I couldn't help but smirk. Expensive stuff, perfect balance. With a knife like this, you could gut a dozen zombies in a row without your wrist seizing up.
There were options with longer blades, but I didn't want to mess around with permits for bladed weapons. Besides, once the world falls, a knife is just a secondary tool. Right now, you can't get a gun, but later, every second looter will have a zip-gun. And a knife... a knife always loses to a spear made from a piece of rebar.
I shadow-fenced for a bit, remembering the motor skills, and froze opposite the target.
THOOM. I threw it with a full wind-up—the knife bit cleanly into the wood. Next came the throwing "needles." Full metal, no handles. Useless in close combat, but perfect for a throw.
PANG! The knife vibrated in the target from the force of the hit.
Then—the hatchet. Nothing to even check there; in terms of destructive power, an axe is top-tier. I was throwing from three meters now, but I knew: with a little practice, I could sink it into anyone's head from ten. Anything further, and you’d need a crossbow or a bullet.
I gathered the steel into a pile and went downstairs to haul up the rest. Desks, monitors... and then I hit the box that had been hanging over me like unfinished homework.
"This came too... Hmm. I should head out tomorrow."
I stood for a moment, looking at the box, then picked it up and hauled it upstairs. Inside was a Geiger counter and a stockpile of batteries.
*****
The next morning, I headed out early. I turned off at Jangjeon Station toward Guso-dong. There were many cars, but rush hour had passed, so the flow was moving briskly. I hopped onto the ring road and sped toward Gijang. An hour's drive through the mountains, where a boar or deer could jump out at any moment, and the interchange appeared.
I dropped onto the highway, drove through the small towns, and came out at the coast. The view was magnificent: the winter sea, white foam from the surf. To the right—water and fishing boats. The road wound around the hills, and suddenly, concrete domes rose ahead. Sinister towers housing the power of civilization.
I floored the gas pedal, heading toward the Kori Nuclear Power Plant—the place that, in six months, would turn hundreds of thousands of people into refugees.