The night blanketed the land in an oppressive darkness.

The sky was pitch-black, shrouded in clouds so thick that even the moon dared not show its face. The surroundings of the Safehouse were deathly silent, the kind of stillness that carried a foreboding chill.

In the shadows, a group of over a dozen men crept closer to the Safehouse. Their movements were precise, their whispered gestures orchestrated in eerie synchronization. Soon, the group split into two teams.

One team, led by a man with a jagged scar across his face, approached the fortified front door. Among them, a man retrieved a slender wire from his jacket, deftly inserting it into the lock. He pressed his ear to the metal door, his hands working in delicate, practiced movements.

The second team slipped around to the back of the Safehouse. They uncoiled a rope with an iron hook, skillfully flinging it upward until it latched onto the railing of the second floor. One man tugged hard to ensure it was secure before beginning his climb.

Below, others stood watch, scanning the desolate surroundings for any signs of movement.

The climber soon reached the rooftop, but his search yielded nothing. There were no openings, no weak points, no hidden entryways. Frustrated, he descended back down to regroup with the others at the front door.

“How did it go up there?” Scarface barked as the climber rejoined them.

The man shook his head, his voice tinged with disbelief. “No way in. We might have to break a window or something.”

“Fine,” Scarface hissed. “But keep it quiet. We don’t want to tip them off.”

The second team circled the building again, this time scrutinizing the windows. One of them produced a glass cutter, pressing it against the pane and carefully carving into it.

After several futile attempts, he stopped, his frustration boiling over as he realized the truth. “What the hell? This glass is bulletproof!”

The revelation rippled through the group, their collective irritation mounting. “Who the hell installs bulletproof glass in their house?” the man muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disbelief and anger.

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They inspected every window on the property, but each one told the same story—impenetrable. With no way in, they returned to Scarface to report their findings.

Scarface’s expression darkened as he digested the news. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he fought back a surge of frustration. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Even with all of us here, we can’t get through one damn door?”

He turned to the lock picker, his voice sharp. “What about you? How much longer until you’ve got it open?”

The lock picker, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, looked up with an uncharacteristic grimace. This man prided himself on his craft, building his reputation on unlocking the impossible. Yet here he was, defeated by a lock whose mechanisms defied his expertise.

“I... I can’t open it,” he admitted reluctantly, his voice low.

Scarface stared at him in disbelief. “Not even you? Damn it!” He paused, taking a deep breath before growling, “Retreat. We’ll regroup later.”

The group melted back into the night, leaving the Safehouse untouched but not forgotten.

Scarface, whose real name was Cai Jun, was a hardened criminal, a man who’d earned his reputation for ruthlessness. They sentenced him to death for murder, but the apocalypse unexpectedly reprieved him. When the world fell apart, he and his fellow inmates seized the chaos to escape.

For days, Cai Jun and his crew had wandered a world overrun by the undead, a landscape devoid of sanctuary. It was by chance that they stumbled upon the Safehouse—a fortress that promised safety, food, and perhaps even luxury.

The house’s defenses utterly outmatched them, despite their planning and skills.

This wasn’t just a house—it was a fortress. Reinforced metal formed the walls, state-of-the-art doors protected the entrances, and bulletproof windows covered the openings. The designers meticulously crafted every detail to keep intruders out.

And the owner? Cai Jun couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person could build such a place. Certainly not an ordinary survivor.

The next morning, Bai Ze woke early, as was his routine. Stretching lazily, he moved to the ground floor and peered through the reinforced glass at the world outside. The street was eerily quiet, devoid of even the usual wandering zombies.

It wasn’t until he prepared to sit down for breakfast that he noticed something peculiar—a faint scratch on the outer surface of the glass.

His pulse quickened. Moving swiftly, he checked each window, finding similar scratches on everyone.

Someone had been here.

Yet as Bai Ze calmed himself, a grim smile tugged at his lips. They hadn’t made it inside, a testament to the fortress he’d built. If anything, their failure only reinforced his confidence.

But he wasn’t naïve. He knew they would return.

Feigning ignorance, Bai Ze carried on as usual. He stepped outside to exercise, his movements calm and deliberate. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been watching, but he wanted them to see nothing out of the ordinary.

Later, he joined Liu Yumeng for breakfast, his eyes constantly flicking toward the windows.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the air thick with tension.

As night fell once more, Bai Ze’s vigilance grew sharper. This time, he was ready. Peering through the darkness, he spotted subtle movements in the shadows.

They were back.