Bonus Chapter!
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*****
He didn't brace himself. He didn't widen his stance. He just reached down with one hand, grabbed the frame, and lifted.
Scrape.
The entire bed rose into the air. He held it there with one arm, his bicep bulging against the sleeve of his robe, but his face showed no strain.
"Leverage," Atlas noted. "My bones aren't bending under the torque. The fulcrum is solid."
He tossed the bed back down. It crashed with a heavy thud that shook the room.
He walked to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam off the glass.
He looked different.
It wasn't just the pale skin or the silver hair.
"Shoulders," he pointed out.
His clavicles had lengthened and thickened, broadening his shoulder width by a good two inches. It gave him the classic V-taper of a comic book hero, but it was functional, designed to support the immense strength of his upper body.
He opened his mouth, baring his teeth at the mirror.
His teeth were white, perfect, and terrifying. The roots had deepened, locking into the high-density jawbone. He had a bite force that could probably snap a broomstick—or a U.B.C.S. agent's arm.
He tapped his forehead.
Clink.
It sounded like tapping a granite countertop.
"The skull," Atlas whispered, a wave of relief washing over him.
This was the most critical upgrade. As a zombie—even an evolved one—the head was the weak point. A 9mm to the brain stem was usually game over. Although he was uncertain about its truth for him and reluctant to experience it, he ultimately wasn't going to forfeit his promising new life just for a chance.
"But now..."
He traced the line of his temple. The cranium was thicker. Denser. The micro-lattice structure would deflect glancing shots. A low-caliber round might crack it, might give him a concussion, but it wouldn't penetrate.
"My mind is safe behind the castle walls," he said. "I'm not bulletproof... but I'm damn close."
There was only the Apex.
After doing the local tastes, feeling the machinery of his own body humming with perfection, Atlas couldn't help but smile.
It was a predatory smile, full of sharp teeth and confidence.
He realized many things that weren't mentioned in the evolution page and weren't reflected in his status page had improved.
His center of balance was absolute.
His hearing conducted through his jawbone was sharper.
His confidence wasn't just arrogance anymore; it was biologically supported fact.
"I am heavier," Atlas said, clenching his silver-bone claws one last time before retracting them. "But I have never felt so light."
He looked at the door.
"Now," he whispered. "Let's see how Zombified I am."
---
The Apple Inn – Lobby / Streets of Raccoon City.
Time: 08:15 PM.
Atlas stood before the full-length mirror in Room 303, adjusting the collar of his new leather jacket.
The reflection staring back was... formidable.
The Skeletal Reinforcement had done more than just harden his bones; it had subtly altered his geometry. His posture was straighter, his spine a vertical steel rod. His shoulders, already broad, had widened by another inch as the clavicles thickened to support his new density. He filled the doorway.
He grabbed the black tactical backpack from the desk.
It was heavy—laden with more than ten thousand dollars in cash, a stash of M67 fragmentation grenades, and the most dangerous item on the planet: the silver briefcase containing the T-Virus and Anti-Virus samples.
'I can't leave this here,' Atlas thought, swinging the bag over one shoulder effortlessly.
Even with the door barricaded, leaving the T-Virus unattended in a hotel room was asking for trouble. In a hybrid world where Ada Wong, HUNK, or TRICELL spies might be prowling the rooftops, paranoia was a survival trait.
He checked his pockets. Flip phone. Wallet. The dismantled SIG Sauer P226 tucked into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back.
"Time to go," he whispered.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. The hotel was quiet, the carpet muffling the heavy, dense tread of his new boots.
He took the elevator down to the lobby.
Ding.
The doors slid open. The lobby was warmer than the air-conditioned suite, smelling of potpourri and floor wax. It was quieter now, the bustle of the morning replaced by the low hum of the evening shift.
Atlas walked toward the exit, intending to slip out unnoticed.
"Mr. Atlas?"
He stopped.
Behind the marble reception desk, Veronica was still there. She was packing up her purse, her blonde hair slightly disheveled from a long shift, looking tired but still impeccably made up.
Atlas turned, flashing a polite smile. "Veronica. You're still here? I thought you'd be halfway home by now."
Veronica looked up, and for a second, a look of genuine confusion crossed her face. She squinted slightly, tilting her head.
"I... was just closing out the register," she said, her voice uncertain. She walked around the desk to meet him. "Is it just me, or... did you get taller?"
She laughed nervously, looking at the top of his head. Earlier that morning, she had to look up to meet his eyes. Now, she felt like she was craning her neck even more.
"I swear you were... smaller this morning. Did you grow an inch or two in eight hours?"
Atlas didn't flinch. He adjusted his stance, leaning casually against a pillar to minimize the height difference.
"It's the boots," Atlas lied smoothly, tapping the thick sole of his tactical footwear. "And a good nap. Walking tall after a good meal does wonders for the posture."
"Must be some meal," Veronica teased, though her eyes lingered on the breadth of his shoulders. The leather jacket was tight across his chest, straining slightly against muscles that hadn't been there at 8:00 AM. "You look like you've been hitting the gym, not sleeping."
"Multi-tasking," Atlas quipped. "So, no overtime tonight?"
"God, no," Veronica sighed, rubbing her neck. "The night manager is late, as usual. But I'm out of here. This city... it's getting creepy at night."
Atlas's smile faded slightly. "Creepy how?"
Veronica lowered her voice, stepping closer to him as if sharing a secret. "Haven't you seen the news? Or the missing person flyers?" She gestured to the glass doors leading to the dark street. "People are vanishing, Atlas. Not just hikers in the mountains anymore. People in the suburbs. A girl from the diner down the street didn't come home last night."
She shivered.
"My neighbor... he works at the hospital. He says the ER is full of people with rashes, skin problems, slight blindness, hunger, and more, but..." She trailed off, looking at the shadows outside. "I don't know. It feels wrong."
Atlas watched her. He knew exactly what it was. The timeline was advancing. The Arklay Incident was bleeding into the city. The contaminated water was showing slight effects on people; they were the first wave of zombies..
He felt a pang of sympathy. They were a civilian standing on the edge of a volcano, complaining about the smell of sulfur, unaware it was about to erupt.
"You shouldn't walk home alone," Atlas said, his voice firm.
Veronica looked at him, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his tone. Then, a small, hopeful smile touched her lips.
"Are you offering to be my bodyguard, Mr. Atlas?"
Atlas adjusted his backpack. "I'm heading out anyway. I need to find a pharmacy. If it's on your way, I'll walk with you."
"My apartment is just six blocks down," Veronica beamed, grabbing her coat. "And the pharmacy is right around the corner from me. Fate, right?"
"Fate," Atlas agreed dryly.
They walked out of the hotel together, the revolving doors spinning them into the cool night air.
[The Streets of Raccoon City]
The city at night was a different beast. The neon signs of bars and pawn shops buzzed with an electric hum. The streets were sparsely populated—mostly cars rushing home, and the occasional police cruiser rolling by with its lights off.
They walked side by side down the sidewalk.
Atlas matched his stride to hers, his heavy boots echoing alongside the click of her heels.
"So," Veronica started, trying to break the tension of the dark streets. "You never told me what you actually do. You book a suite for ten days, you pay in cash, you order enough food for a football team, and you look like..."
She gestured at him.
"...Like you could break a brick wall with your face."
Atlas chuckled. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation," she laughed. "Are you a spy? A hitman?"
"Nothing so exciting," Atlas shook his head. He looked at the streetlights flickering overhead. "I'm a private contractor. Security consultant."
It was the easiest lie because it was built on the truth of his past life.
"I spent time in the military," Atlas continued, his voice taking on a distant quality. "Deployed overseas. Middle East. I learned how to assess threats, how to secure perimeters... how to survive in places where people don't want you to survive."
Veronica looked at him, her playfulness replaced by interest. "That explains the thousand-yard stare. And the confident air around you."
"Do I have a stare?"
"You have the stare," she nodded. "Like you're constantly checking the exits. It's... intense. But safe."
She moved slightly closer to him as they passed a dark alleyway.
"It must be hard," she said softly. "Coming back to normal life after that. My brother... he was in the Gulf. He came back different. Quieter."
Atlas looked at her. He saw the genuine empathy in her eyes. It was strange. He was a monster—a creature of the T-Virus, calculating XP and evolution costs—but she saw a traumatized soldier.
"It takes time," Atlas said, truthful for once. "You learn to appreciate the small things. Soft beds. Hot showers. A quiet walk on a Friday night."
"And pretty receptionists?" Veronica teased, bumping his shoulder with hers.
Atlas smiled, looking down at her. "And pretty receptionists."
He wasn't in love with her. He barely knew and was attracted to her. But in this moment, walking under the dying lights of a doomed city, he appreciated her. She was a reminder of what he was fighting to keep—his self in power. She was normal. And normalcy was a luxury he could no longer afford.
They reached a small, brick apartment complex. It looked cozy, with flower boxes in the windows and a warm yellow light above the entrance.
"This is me," Veronica said, stopping at the gate. She turned to face him, lingering. She didn't reach for her keys.
She looked up at him, biting her lip. The chemistry was there—the attraction to the danger he radiated, mixed with the safety he provided.
"So," she started, her fingers nervously twisting the leather strap of her purse. She offered a smile that was equal parts hopeful and hesitant, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the apartment lobby. "It's Friday night. The week is finally over. I have a bottle of Merlot upstairs that needs breathing... and I make really, really good coffee."
It was the invitation. The universal code.
Atlas looked at her. He looked at the warm, inviting light of the lobby behind her. It promised normalcy. It promised soft sheets, the smell of wine, and the comfort of another human body against his own.
Part of him—the ghost of the man who had died in the incident, the lonely somebody who had spent months in his old life staring at the hospital ceiling—wanted to say yes. That old version of himself would have been desperate for this. He would have wanted to run upstairs, drink the wine, bury himself in her warmth, and pretend for just a few hours that the world wasn't teetering on the edge of extinction.
But as he looked at Veronica—objectively attractive, kind, willing—he felt... quiet.
There was no spark. No pull. No feral instinct kicking in.
*****
Get those stones going boys and femboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server: 76ybzdTK
*****