After a long, tense silence, Vivian emerged from the kitchen with a face like a thundercloud, her steps sharp and deliberate.

"You... fucking animals," she spat, trembling with rage as her eyes swept over the group.

Her teammates followed close behind, every one of them grim-faced, jaws clenched tight.

"It's the apocalypse," the man in front barked, eyes wild. "We're all gonna die anyway—why hold back? Don't pretend like half the men here didn't want to do the same. We just had the balls to act on it."

He laughed, a jagged, manic sound. "So what if we ran into you today? Fine, we lost. But you think you're getting out of here? The main dining hall's almost out of food. The streets are crawling with the dead. We're all starving, waiting for a rescue that's never coming. Even if it does—none of you will live to see it."

Vivian's voice cut through the air like a blade. "That's not your concern anymore. Nate—kill him."

The man beside her, tall and sharp-featured, stepped forward without a word. The fire axe in his hands rose and fell in one clean arc.

A head the size of a melon flew through the air, trailing blood. Screams erupted around the room.

Chris flinched, then turned to Ethan. "What the hell was in there? What pissed her off that bad?"

Ethan let out a long breath. "A bunch of naked men. And women so broken you could barely tell they were still alive."

"...Shit."

"Yeah. Those bastards deserved worse."

Moments later, several women from Vivian's team emerged from the back, guiding a dozen or so others. The new arrivals moved like ghosts—blank stares, hollow cheeks, skin pale as ash.

But when their eyes landed on the men sprawled on the floor, something inside them snapped.

Their expressions twisted. Then they lunged.

Teeth bared, they tore into the men with feral screams.

"Ah—!"

"Get off me—!"

The main dining hall filled with shrieks and the wet sounds of flesh being ripped. The men tried to fight back, but it was chaos. Blood sprayed. One man staggered away with a chunk of his shoulder missing. Another screamed as a woman bit into his thigh and didn't let go.

Eventually, the frenzy ebbed. The women collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, their mouths stained red.

Ethan shook his head. "In a world like this, if a woman doesn't have power, being beautiful is a curse."

Chris and Henry nodded grimly. The women were young, attractive—at least, they had been. Now they looked like survivors of a war no one had won.

A clatter broke the silence—several knives hit the floor in front of the women.

Vivian's voice was ice. "Crying won't change anything. Pick up a weapon. Finish what they started."

The women flinched, startled. They looked at her, then at the blades, uncertain.

Then one moved. Then another.

They rose, trembling, and grabbed the knives.

And then they attacked.

All hesitation vanished. Their eyes burned with hatred as they hacked at the men who had violated them. The blades rose and fell, over and over, until the screams stopped and the bodies were nothing but mangled pulp.

Blood soaked their clothes, their hands, their faces. But they didn't stop. Not until there was nothing left to cut.

The rest of the room backed away, horrified. No one dared intervene.

When the last blow fell, the women stood panting, their fury spent. The madness drained from their faces, replaced by something else—revulsion.

One by one, they dropped their knives and began to vomit.

Most of the people in the main dining hall were now hunched over, vomiting onto the floor. The scene had pushed far past what any normal person could stomach.

"Please—don't kill me! I was wrong! I swear I'll never do it again!"

The remaining thugs, who just moments ago had been sneering and fearless, were now groveling on their knees, terror written all over their faces.

Dying wasn't the scary part. Being hacked into chunks—that was.

They dropped to the ground, bowing over and over, babbling apologies, begging for mercy.

A few of the rescued women had picked up knives but couldn't bring themselves to use them. Their hands shook too hard. Their eyes were too full of fear.

Vivian gave a small shake of her head, then turned to the women who had fought back. "You girls," she said, voice steady, "come with us from now on."

"Yes—thank you! Thank you!"

These women had seen the worst of the apocalypse. They understood now—more than anyone—the value of strength, and the safety of a powerful team.

The others looked on with hope in their eyes, silently pleading for the same offer. But Vivian didn't spare them a second glance. Instead, she turned to Ethan, who'd been watching the whole thing unfold like a spectator at a grim play.

"What do you think we should do with the rest of them?" she asked.

Ethan blinked. He hadn't expected her to ask his opinion. Knowing Vivian, this was probably a test.

He rolled his eyes. "Kill them. What, you planning to save them for Christmas dinner?"

Vivian nodded. "Good." She turned to her team. "Kill them all."

"Got it."

Her people moved without hesitation, closing in on the kneeling men.

Screams erupted again—pleading, shrieking, the wet crunch of blades meeting flesh.

Vivian's team didn't flinch. In this world, hesitation got you killed. They'd long since passed the point of mercy. That's why they were still alive.

Killing people wasn't so different from killing the infected. If anything, people were easier. And sometimes, far more monstrous.

Soon, the screams faded. The last of the bastards had paid for what they'd done.

The rest of the dining hall—over a thousand survivors—watched in stunned silence. Some looked satisfied. Others horrified. Most just looked numb.

Vivian turned back to Ethan. "So what now? The place is surrounded by infected. We're not getting out anytime soon."

"We checked the kitchen earlier," Ethan said. "There's not much left. With over a thousand people in here, even if we stretch it with watery soup, we've got maybe three days."

"What if it was just us?" Ethan added with a crooked smile. "We could probably stretch it to a week."

"You—!" Vivian's eyes narrowed.

Everyone nearby turned to stare at Ethan, stunned.

He chuckled. "Relax. Just a joke. No need to get all worked up."

But then he added, more seriously, "Still... this many mouths to feed? It's a waste."

"What the hell kind of thing is that to say?" someone snapped.

"Yeah! You're no better than those bastards if you're thinking about hoarding food!"

The crowd started to stir, voices rising in anger.

Ethan didn't flinch. "Am I wrong? That food might buy you three more days. Then what? You think rescue's coming? You'll just starve slower."

"But if we keep it for ourselves, we could last a month. Maybe long enough for help to actually arrive."

"You selfish prick! What gives you the right?!"

"Yeah! Who the hell do you think you are?!"

Ethan's smile vanished. His voice dropped, cold and sharp. "What gives us the right? Our fists."

He swept his gaze across the crowd. "Where were all of you when those animals were doing whatever they wanted? Hiding. Pretending not to see. And now, suddenly, you've found your voices? What—because now it's your food on the line, not someone else's body?"

A heavy silence fell.

Some opened their mouths to argue, but no words came. Their faces flushed with shame and fury.

They hadn't been the victims. So they'd stayed quiet.

But now that survival was at stake—now they wanted to speak up.

...

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