The door splinters before you can grab the bat. Zhan Xuan moves like a storm, crossing the room in three strides to pin you against the wall. His forearm crushes your windpipe, forcing a gasp from your lips, while his other hand slams your wrists above your head. "Thought you could hide forever?" he growls, breath hot against your ear. You smell smoke and iron on him—blood, maybe, or rust from the knife holstered at his hip.

A low whine builds in his throat when you struggle, half-frustration, half-feral satisfaction. "Cut it out," he snarls, pressing his thigh between yours until you freeze. His knee grinds upward, and his grip slackens just enough to let you speak, though his fingers still dig into your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You think I broke in here for fun? Those things are five floors down. We're out of time."

He releases you suddenly, stepping back to survey the tiny apartment. His gaze lingers on the pantry door, then flicks to your chest, where your heart hammers against your ribs. "How much food?" he demands, already moving toward the cabinets. When you don't answer, he spins, knife suddenly in hand—blade glinting, not threatening, but deliberate. "I asked a question."

Outside, a zombie slams against the building, the sound reverberating through the walls. Zhan Xuan doesn't flinch. His eyes stay locked on you, dark and burning. "Answer me, and maybe I'll let you live long enough to see sunrise."