From the doorway came Rohan. The moment he saw me, his eyes widened, fear still lingered there, flickering like a shadow that refused to fade.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice tight with unease. His gaze darted between my hands and my face, as if expecting another blow.
"Here," I said quietly, holding out a small packet. "Painkillers. For your face."
He hesitated, studying me for a few seconds before finally taking it. His fingers brushed mine briefly — cold, tense, wary.
"And… I'm sorry," I said after a moment. "For hitting you."
He blinked, surprised by the apology, then gave a slow nod. "Okay," he said finally, voice small. "I forgive you… just don't do that again."
Something loosened in my chest. Hearing those words — even in that shaky voice — felt like a weight lifting. "Thank you," I murmured, then turned to leave.
When I stepped back into our room, Ava looked up from the sofa. "Did Rohan take the pain medicine, Max?"
I nodded.
"That's wonderful news," she said with a soft smile. Seeing her smile made me smile too. I sat beside her, the tension in me easing a little.
"What were you two talking about?" came a voice from the doorway. It was Matthew — his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.
"Oh, nothing much," Ava replied, brushing it off with practiced calm. "Just talking about taking responsibility."
Matthew nodded and sank into the chair across from us. "You mean the part where Max hit Rohan because he thought Rohan had something to do with your disappearance?"
I looked down, shame burning in my cheeks.
"Yes," Ava said gently, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It was just a mistake. Max already feels bad enough. Please don't make him feel worse."
She turned to him again. "By the way, did you find the walkie-talkie? Rohan's sister was crying alone earlier — I had to comfort her. And where's John?"
Matthew sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, we found it. John's returning it to the siblings now."
Ava smiled. "Thank God." Her relief softened her face, and seeing that, Matthew smiled too, a quiet, knowing kind of smile.
They kept talking after that — small things, unimportant things — but there was something beneath the surface. A playful tone in Matthew's voice. A faint laugh from Ava. It was subtle, but noticeable. I also couldn't ignore the faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the air, sharp and bitter.
Before I could think too much about it, my father walked in.
"Hey, everyone," he said, cheerful as always. "I talked with Rohan — he agreed to let us stay here as long as we need. Ava, could you make something for dinner tonight? Rohan and his sister will join us."
Ava's face lit up instantly. Matthew's too — though for different reasons, I think. She looked especially happy, and I knew why. The motel had hot water — a luxury these days.
"I'll make dinner," she said, her voice bright with excitement.
"That's good to hear, John," Matthew added with a friendly nod.
Then my father turned to me. "Max, come with me. I'm going to check the area around the motel — make sure it's safe. We can talk a bit while we're out there. Father and son."
His tone was light, but his eyes were intent. I hesitated for a moment, then nodded and stood.
"John, don't take Max outside!" Ava blurted, grabbing my hand. Her voice trembled slightly. "You know how dangerous it is out there. He's still just a kid. What if something happens to him?"
"Ava, it's alright," John said softly, his tone calm but firm. "Max isn't a baby anymore. He'll be fifteen next month. He needs to learn how to survive. I'm just going to teach him the basics."
"Matthew, stop your brother," she said sharply. "You know how dangerous it is."
He didn't answer, just smiled that awkward, guilty smile.
"Were you part of this?" she pressed.
Matthew lowered his gaze, saying nothing. The silence answered for him.
John stepped forward slightly. "Ava," he said, his tone steady but serious. "I understand that you're worried. But sooner or later, Max has to learn. You're right — the world out there is dangerous. That's exactly why I need to teach him how to defend himself. Don't worry — I'll be with him every step of the way."
Ava hesitated, torn between fear and reason. Finally, she exhaled shakily and released my hand. Deep down, she knew he was right. She couldn't protect me forever.
"Watch over him," she said quietly. "Don't let him out of your sight. And Max — listen to your father. Please."
We both nodded, then stepped outside.
The sunlight hit me first, warm but blinding. The sky was clear, and the forest beyond the motel swayed gently in the wind. Birds called from somewhere high in the trees. For a brief moment, it felt like the old world — peaceful, alive.
But that illusion didn't last.
As we made our way toward the dense woods, I spotted a lone undead staggering near the tree line. My father raised a hand, motioning for silence. We crouched low, moving carefully through the tall grass.
"Max," he whispered, "there are a few things you need to understand. First — always aim for the head. Second — avoid hordes. In large numbers, they get smarter… and deadlier. And most importantly, always kill anyone who's about to turn. They're the most dangerous of all."
He pulled a handgun from his belt and handed it to me. The metal was cold and heavy.
"I know you've used a gun before," he said, "but you need to remember safety. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire, and never aim at anything you don't intend to shoot. Got it?"
I nodded. I'd heard the same lessons before — from my grandfather during hunting trips. But hearing them now, in this world, from my father… it felt different.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Now take aim and shoot that undead in the head."
I steadied my breath, raised the gun, and fired. The shot cracked through the silence, echoing through the woods. The bullet struck true, straight through its skull. The walker dropped instantly.
"Good job, son," my father said, pride flashing in his eyes. "You're natural. Now let's move — before we attract more."
But before he could finish, three more emerged from the trees.
I didn't think — I just acted. Three shots, three kills. Each one clean, precise, perfect through their skulls.
Even I was surprised. The gun felt like an extension of my body — as if my hands already knew what to do. I silently thanked the angel for giving me this body.
Agent 47's body was built to be the best at handling a gun. Precision, control, efficiency, all of it felt second nature.
My father stared at me, speechless. "You hit all three," he said finally, his voice filled with disbelief. "They were so far away I could barely see them. With accuracy like that, you'd win a gold medal."
I felt my cheeks flush, embarrassed by the compliment, but couldn't help smiling.
"Stop smiling," he said with a faint chuckle. "Come on — and remember, don't fire near populated areas. You'll draw too many undead. Even here in the woods, the sound carries. Always think before you shoot."
"I will, Dad," I said.
But a question lingered in my mind, burning. "What did you mean when you said hordes become smarter?"
My dad's smile faded. "Even I don't know why," he said. "But when they gather in large groups, they start to act differently — coordinated, almost like a hive. They can climb walls, set traps… even ambush. Alone, they're nothing. But together — they're terrifying."
A chill crawled up my spine. Hordes that could think — that was something worse than death itself.
"And when you said to kill anyone about to turn… why?"
He grew quiet, his expression darkening. "Sometimes I forget you lost your memory," he said quietly. "Newly turned people still retain most of their motor functions. They can run, climb, even use tools for a while. After about twenty-four hours they slow down and become regular walkers — but in that first day, they're the deadliest. That's how the military base we were staying at fell apart. One newly turned person brought the whole thing down."
His words hit me hard.
I'd thought the undead were like in the TV shows, slow, predictable. But this… this was something else entirely.
"You're good with a gun," he said evenly. "Just remember — survival doesn't care about mercy. Kill anyone who's a threat to you."
There was a cold edge to his voice, but I understood. In this world, mercy could get you killed. I nodded silently, accepting the truth I already knew.
"Come on," my father said softly, breaking the silence. "Let's get back before Ava gets angry."
He started walking ahead. I followed slowly, the weight of everything he'd said pressing down on me like a storm cloud.