Rosalia — POV
We stood in tense silence, waiting for Frederick to pull the zombies away.
I kept my expression steady, but underneath, my heart was a frantic storm. I was the only one who knew how desperately I was trying to hold myself together.
Barely managing.
After everything I’d just done—the chaos I’d caused... God. I grabbed Cassel by the collar, cried in his arms, and...
I even opened his shirt.
What a ss...
He must think I’m so kind of pervert.
A lunatic or sothing like that.
If only I could bury myself six feet under right now.
What a complete disaster.
"Get ready."
The deep, low rumble of his voice brushed against my ear.
Cassel’s face was far too close.
Close enough that my breath caught. I shifted away, quietly, carefully, as if any sudden movent would expose my embarrassnt.
He didn’t notice. Or maybe he pretended not to.
"Let’s move," he repeated.
By then, Frederick was already sprinting across the opposite side of the courtyard, plunging straight into the mass of bodies.
The mont the zombies sensed him, their shrieks tore through the air—raw, feral, the sound of starving creatures who had finally spotted their ideal prey.
He didn’t even need to lure them. The second he bolted in the opposite direction, they surged after him in a warped, wobbling tide.
Only one or two stragglers lingered near the entrance that had been overflowing with the undead monts ago.
We approached the door cautiously.
Henry pushed against it—locked.
He spoke gently, almost tenderly. "Hello? Is anyone in there? We’re here to rescue you. Please open the door, the zombies are gone."
Inside, the chaotic symphony of shuffling noises echoed as multiple voices overlapped—so shouting in anger, others panicking in fear, and a few hurriedly trying to make decisions amid the turmoil.
After a long mont, the door creaked open, revealing a little girl.
One look at her was enough. She hadn’t eaten properly in a long ti. Her clothes were ragged, stained, torn in places...
"May we co in?" Henry asked.
Shy, and almost trembling at the softness of his voice, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
Cassel glanced at Henry—a look sharp enough to suggest, absurdly, that he suspected him of sothing indecent.
Inside, the small room was packed.
Two children clung to a man in a suit. A woman in a short, revealing dress—sothing you’d expect in a nightclub, not an apocalypse—hovered behind him. The kids looked like street urchins; the adults, in comparison, were almost well-kept.
Soone lay unconscious on a hospital bed.
The younger kids held the suited man’s hand with stiff, frightened fingers. Even the girl who’d opened the door rushed to the bedside and latched onto the others.
"These useless things," the woman muttered, her frail voice dripping with disgust instead of weakness.
"Mr. Zancroft—my God, it’s really you."
The man in the suit stepped forward as if Cassel were a celebrity.
He hurried up and seized Cassel’s hand, far too familiarly—like they were lifelong friends.
"Mr. Cassel, it’s good to see you here. From the way you entered, you must be able users. Could you help my wife and escape and protect us? Please."
The arrogance in his tone twisted the word please into sothing that sounded more like a privilege he was granting Cassel, not a request.
Cassel yanked his hand away, disgust plain on his face. His voice hardened instantly.
"Sir, do I know you?"
The man froze—but apparently embarrassnt wasn’t in his vocabulary. He forced a greasy smile and stepped in again.
"Mr. Cassel, I’m the manager of Mann Technology. We had a eting recently about a new cooperation project."
Cassel’s eyes narrowed. A slow, dangerous shift. Then the raised eyebrow—the sign no one wanted to see. His voice dropped colder than before.
"Right. You’re the acting president who wanted double the profits we agreed on with your forr president. The reason we cut off collaboration with your company."
Sha flickered across the man’s face—barely a second—before he waved it away.
"Let’s not talk about that. In tis like these, we should help each other. I’ve been stuck here for nearly a week. My wife and I have barely eaten. Since you’re here, you have to help us."
"Yes, exactly! Since you know my husband, you must help," the woman chid in.
Henry let out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all.
"Wow. This is the first ti I’ve heard such pure nonsense. Lady, did a zombie eat your brain? Or were you always like this?"
"You—you—!"
She stomped toward him, hand raised to strike.
But Henry’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp expression that made even the air tense. His voice dropped into sothing deep and dangerous.
"If you value that finger of yours, keep it away from my face, or—"
She didn’t even let him finish. Her hand was already tucked behind her bag.
"Mr. Cassel, this is unacceptable! Control your subordinates. Is this how your personal secretary treats us?"
What was wrong with this idiot?
Did he really think he was still so powerful president with servants at his feet?
Worshipping Cassel while sneering at Henry—pathetic.
I wondered how fast he’d swallow his arrogance if he found out Henry wasn’t defenseless.
Cassel had clearly had enough. His patience snapped cleanly. Without another word to them, he turned his back and walked toward the hospital bed.
A man with an unshaven jaw, wearing hospital clothes, lay unconscious.
Cassel stopped beside him—but the three children imdiately stepped in front of him, tiny bodies trembling as they shielded the man like loyal knights protecting their fallen king.
My heart nearly lted for those brave little peas.
I was about to whisper to Cassel to soften his approach—when he suddenly knelt on one knee before them, lowering himself until he was eye-level with their fear.
His voice changed completely. Soft, gentle—nothing like the icy tone from monts before.
"Kids... tell . Is this sick man your father?"
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