The glass exploded.
A sharp, shattering scream tore through the tight space of the Jeep's interior as the rear window gave way to a clawed arm, long and warped, tearing through with inhuman strength. The monster's shriek followed it—a broken, echoing sound like a thousand whispers trying to scream at once.
Kim Jisoo didn't hesitate.
He dove into the backseat, grabbing Haru in his arms just as another burst of claws swiped through the open window. A shard of glass ripped across his forearm—clean, deep. Blood immediately soaked his sleeve.
Haru's eyes widened, and he clamped both hands over his mouth to keep from crying out.
The child didn't scream.
Even now.
Even with his grandmother's twisted form crawling through the Jeep like a feral nightmare.
Jisoo kicked the passenger door open and leapt out, Haru gripped tightly to his chest. His boots hit the dirt hard and rolled once. His arm screamed in pain as the shard dug deeper into muscle, but he didn't stop moving.
He ran.
The Jeep, now out of control, veered off the forest path and slammed into a fallen tree with a crunch of metal and shattering glass.
The monster screamed again.
She launched herself from the wreckage. Her body twisted mid-air, clawed feet digging into the forest floor with enough force to crack bark. She sniffed the air like a predator, black eyes locked on Jisoo and the child in his arms.
Jisoo ran harder.
His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
Branches whipped across his face as he tore through the thick woods, following nothing but instinct and a raw will to survive.
The monster didn't run—she glided, leapt, soared through the trees with an unnatural grace, silent but swift, always closing the distance.
Jisoo's brain raced.
He couldn't outrun her.
He couldn't fight her hand-to-hand.
Not like this.
Not with a child in his arms and blood pouring from his arm.
Think. Think. THINK—
And then—a flash of memory.
Two months ago. Alone in the lab. Rewiring a high-density tactical flashlight. Tinkering with the LED spectrum. Adjusting it until the light replicated UV-A and near-infrared frequencies.
"Closest approximation to solar light I'll ever get without cooking a power grid," he'd muttered at the time.
He had no reason to do it.
Just instinct.
Now, it was life or death.
He stopped running.
Turned.
Set Haru down gently behind a fallen log. The boy sobbed silently, hands still over his mouth, eyes huge and wet with terror.
"Stay there," Jisoo whispered.
He reached into the back pocket of his utility vest, fingers closing around the thick, weighty handle of the flashlight.
The monster saw him and hissed—louder now. Her limbs snapped into place. Her mouth opened far too wide. Her body tensed to leap.
Jisoo thumbed the switch.
The flashlight came to life with a pulse of white-gold light. Not ordinary light. Engineered light. A perfect imitation of the sun's dying touch, layered with soft heat and the full UV spectrum.
The monster hit the beam mid-leap.
And screamed.
Her body twisted in the air as if suddenly lit on fire. The light slammed into her with a hiss of burning flesh. Her skin bubbled, melted, pulled apart in grotesque patches. Steam rose. She clawed at her own face. Her shriek rose several octaves until it cracked.
Jisoo didn't move.
He raised the light higher.
Maxed the intensity.
The monster staggered forward, then backward, convulsing. Her body sagged. Melted. Her limbs bent and collapsed as they lost integrity. Her hands, once clawed and lethal, dripped away into ash and fluid.
One more second—
And she was gone.
Just a puddle of charred tissue and a black smear on the ground.
Jisoo stared at the spot, arm still holding the light up, breathing hard.
His knees buckled.
He fell back onto the ground.
The forest was silent again.
He looked at his arm—blood still ran from the deep gash. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His hand was shaking, but not from the pain.
From everything.
He turned to Haru.
The child hadn't moved. He was curled behind the log, holding the locket tight to his chest, his little body trembling like a leaf.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, and yet, no sound came from him. Not a single wail, not a scream. Just the silent agony of a child who had seen the end of the world begin with someone he loved.
Jisoo walked to him and knelt beside him.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
But what did you say when a child had just watched their grandmother die—burn—after trying to kill them?
What did you say when you were the one who did it?
He reached out, fingers brushing Haru's head.
The boy flinched—then pressed his face into Jisoo's chest and sobbed, the dam finally breaking.
Jisoo held him.
Held him like he wished someone had held him, once.
For minutes, he just sat there, bleeding, heart pounding, the weight of survival finally landing like a hammer.
Tears slipped from his eyes.
He didn't notice them until they hit Haru's hair.
He was alive.
The boy was alive.
But being alive—staying alive—wasn't easy.
It was hell.
Jisoo looked up at the dark canopy above, the gray skies that used to be blue. The sun was almost gone now, barely clinging to the world.
The monsters would return.
And next time, he might not have a light bright enough to stop them.
His instincts, for once, had gone quiet.
Not gone.
Just quiet.
He'd survived this time.
But survival wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
And as Haru cried in his arms, Jisoo finally understood: this world was no longer about who could run faster.
It was about who could fight back.
And maybe, just maybe, he had the first weapon.