A Gun to the Head
Three months after the zombie outbreak.
It was the first time Boyeon had stepped outside the bunker where she had hidden for the entire duration. For the first time since the disaster, she encountered another human being.
He immediately pressed the barrel of a gun to her head.
To think something like this is still alive and well…
His strangely chilling eyes slowly drank in every detail of her. The pretty face. The clean skin. The neatly rounded fingernails. The glossy hair. The faint scent of soap. He examined her like an object, weighing its utility, calculating whether it was better to kill or to use.
“P-please… spare me…”
Any ordinary person would have been overwhelmed by the sheer stress of a gun aimed at their skull. Their heart would hammer, their body would shake beyond control. All Boyeon could manage was to force open her fear-tightened throat and plead.
How has she been hiding?
A faint spark of interest flickered in his pitch-black eyes.
He studied the underground staircase visible behind the crouching girl. Solid concrete reinforcement. A bunker.
“A bunker, huh.”
In a wealthy neighborhood like this, it wasn’t surprising that some rich family had indulged in such a hobby. He stepped inside without much reaction, gun still trained on Boyeon. She had no choice but to raise her hands and shuffle backward.
Boyeon couldn’t even take a proper look at the man. Her mind refused to function. Why was he pointing a gun at her? What was she supposed to do? The questions wouldn’t line up.
Panicked, she avoided his eyes and dropped her gaze—only to notice his combat boots.
He wasn’t wearing a uniform, though. Despite zombies roaming everywhere, he wore light cotton pants and a short-sleeved shirt, as if bites were the least of his concerns. A tactical harness capable of holding magazines was strapped over his torso. Every movement pulled the soft fabric taut against it, revealing the stark, oppressive lines of muscle beneath.
He was bigger and more heavily muscled than any man she had ever seen. Her college classmates couldn’t compare. He looked like a general or a barbarian stepped out of a movie set in antiquity. If combat strength could be measured by physique alone, he seemed capable of crushing zombies with his bare hands.
Yet above the thick Adam’s apple, his face carried an icy impression. Black hair and red lips that should have signaled beauty. It was an exceptionally handsome face, but the cold aura made fear rise first.
“Are you… a soldier?”
Boyeon asked with the smallest thread of hope.
“No.”
The corner of his red mouth curved up smoothly. Eyes half-hidden by dark hair, gaze strangely unfocused, fixed on her.
A shiver crawled down her spine.
She felt like prey tossed before a predator. An alarm screamed inside her skull. She had to run.
But where?
Her trembling eyes flicked back to the gun. She had no chance of winning a physical struggle even without the weapon. The terror that resistance would equal death flooded her mind.
“Please… put the gun down…”
Her plea was tiny, her voice shaking, thick with tears. By now he had to understand. She had no intention of fighting back.
But the man only tilted his head slightly, as if asking whether that was truly necessary. His cold eyes showed no hesitation toward murder.
“P-please spare me…”
Boyeon instinctively sensed the mortal danger. She whispered again, desperate to live.
“If you want this place… y-you can stay here…”
The underground bunker held more than enough supplies. Gomo had warned her never to let anyone inside, but right now her life was the priority. The man, however, seemed displeased. His brows twitched. Perhaps he found it simpler to kill her and take everything.
“You need the password to get in…”
“……”
“I’ll tell you…”
“……”
“Please… spare me…”
After a long moment of consideration, the man finally spoke.
“What other uses do you have, then.”
His pleasant low voice rang out, completely dry.
Uses for a person. He was clearly just as dangerous as the zombies. Boyeon’s face crumpled into a tearful mess at the realization that she had run into the worst possible survivor.
“Drone reconnaissance… cleaning, cooking, things like that…”
He stared at her with the bored eyes of a man watching a wriggling insect.
It wasn’t enough. Boyeon’s expression darkened further.
“I-I’ll do anything you tell me to… so please, just spare me…”
The eyes that had begun their hunt gleamed darkly within the quiet. He studied her face—openly broadcasting every emotion—then reached out with the hand holding the gun.
She flinched. The moment she squeezed her eyes shut, his fingers brushed her earlobe. The touch was shockingly hot and solid. It slid from her ear to her cheek, swept over the soft skin, then traced down the nape of her neck. The smooth strands of hair that followed the motion and spilled across her chest felt disturbingly intimate.
“……!”
Thud. The hard barrel of the gun pressed against the small of her back. It hadn’t even been fired, yet it burned. Her skin stung as if scalded. Cold sweat broke out. She was certain the gunshot would rip through her eardrums any second.
He drew her in leisurely, knowing she was too terrified to even consider resistance. There was no strength left in her body. Her frail frame fluttered like a small bird, moving wherever he pulled.
Thud. Her cheek met the solid wall of his chest. The difference in their sizes was overwhelming.
Boyeon felt harmlessly delicate and soft. The hand that slowly stroked her pitifully trembling shoulders carried thick threads of satisfaction.
Whatever the bunker contained, however many supplies her grandfather had hoarded for his granddaughter, none of it mattered. In a lawless wasteland, the strong plundered the weak. That was simply how it worked.
He had never been interested in companions. Most humans were nothing but burdens to him. Boyeon would be the same—weak, not particularly clever, and therefore an extremely annoying piece of luggage.
Killing her and taking the bunker would have been easier. So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? If the sexual frustration he had ignored for far too long hadn’t surged violently at the sight of her tear-streaked face and slender female body, Boyeon would already be dead.
“If you weren’t a woman…”
He made no effort to hide the truth, whispering the words slowly against her ear.
“I wouldn’t have any use for you.”
Her slender body jerked violently. Boyeon wasn’t stupid enough to miss his meaning. She was so frightened she could barely breathe, chest heaving in shallow gasps. The fragile sound was heartbreaking, like a small bird with shattered wings.
She became acutely aware of the man’s cock, rigid and pressed against her.
“How old are you?”
He stroked her hair as if soothing a frightened animal, murmuring the question in a low voice.
“Hic… huu…”
Sobs broke free. The man didn’t press her when she failed to answer. He simply continued stroking her small head in a calming rhythm. He had no reason to hurry, and his relaxed demeanor made that clear. To Boyeon, it felt like a swamp that blocked every escape route. Or perhaps the whisper of a devil.
What would happen if she refused? She didn’t want to find out. It terrified her.
“I-I’m… hic… an adult, please…”
In the end, she begged. Her voice, broken by fear, shook miserably.
The man obediently lowered the gun and stepped back.
Boyeon’s legs gave out completely. As she crumpled, a large hand caught her waist in a firm grip.
Three months earlier, that day had been a bright Saturday.
For the first time in a while the fine dust count was low, and people gathered on the streets in cheerful clusters.
Boyeon, however, had spent the entire day buried in a deep nap, completely indifferent to the weather.