Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 62: A Good Night’s Sleep

The bathroom door clicked shut behind me.

I turned the shower on to a temperature that probably would have cooked lobster after ten minutes. The pipes groaned before the stream steadied, the sound echoing off the tile.

Steam started rising immediately, filling the small space with warmth and moisture. I peeled off my clothes, the fabric stuck to my skin in places where the blood had soaked through and dried against me. I had to pull it away slowly, feeling the slight tug as it separated. I dropped everything on the floor in a heap near the door.

The air was cold against my bare skin and I shivered for a moment before I stepped into the shower.

The water hit my shoulders first, hot enough to sting, but it was perfect. I hissed slightly at the temperature but didn’t adjust it. I stepped fully under the stream and watched the blood start to run.

The blood came off in waves. Dark red at first, thick and sluggish as it mixed with the water. Then lighter as the stream diluted it, turning pink, then rust-colored. The patterns swirled down the drain like a Jackson Pollock painting—chaotic, spreading, and then merging into each other before disappearing.

I tilted my head back, letting the water run through my hair. More blood. It had gotten everywhere—matted in the strands near my scalp, streaked across my collarbone, smeared along my jawline. I ran my fingers through my hair, working the water in, feeling the texture change as the blood loosened and washed away.

The drain couldn’t keep up. Water pooled around my feet, tinted red, swirling slowly before it finally disappeared down the pipes.

I moaned in both disappointment and enjoyment. Disappointment because I had been aiming for the Baby’s heart, and enjoyment because there was nothing better than a hot shower.

But seriously, I needed to start training again...

Nah.

I shook my head. I wasn’t training. That wasn’t the point of this life.

Not to mention, since I was never going to leave this house, I wouldn’t need to be better at killing...

Still... I kind of missed it...

Just a bit.

I reached for the soap, scrubbing my arms first until the skin turned pink from friction and heat. The bar slipped slightly in my grip, slick with water and foam. I worked it over my torso, my ribs, my stomach. Then my legs, bending to reach my calves and ankles. My hands came last. The blood under my nails took longer. I worked at it with my thumbnail, digging it out piece by piece, watching the dark crescents turn clean again.

Outside the bathroom, I could hear faint movement. I honestly didn’t know how I felt about letting them stay in my room... but I didn’t hate the idea nearly as much as I wanted to.

And that is a slippery slope.

The sound of footsteps crossing the room dragged me from my thoughts. Something scraped across the floor, the sound of furniture being moved, maybe. A drawer opened and closed and I could hear fabric rustled.

They were settling in.

I rinsed my hair one more time, tilting my head back under the stream. The water ran clear now, no more pink, no more rust. Just clean.

I turned off the shower. The sudden silence was louder than the water had been. My ears rang slightly in the absence of sound.

I stepped out onto the mat, grabbed the towel from the rack, and dried off quickly. The air outside the shower was cold, raising fresh goosebumps on my arms and legs.

I wrapped a second towel around myself and opened the door.

The temperature shift hit me first. The room was warmer than the bathroom, the air heavier and less humid. It smelled different too—copper and sweat mixed with something sharper. Antiseptic, maybe. Or rubbing alcohol.

Jian Yuche was sitting on the floor near the foot of the bed, his back against the wall. His shirt was off, draped across his lap, as blood streaked his chest and shoulder, fresh and dark against his skin.

Chenghai knelt beside him, a small kit open on the floor. The contents were spread out in neat rows—tweezers, gauze, tape, a bottle of clear liquid. His hands moved with practiced efficiency—no hesitation, no wasted motion. He had a pair of tweezers in one hand, angled into the wound on Yuche’s shoulder.

Yuche’s jaw was tight, his teeth clenched. A muscle jumped in his cheek. But he didn’t make a sound.

Chenghai pulled slow and steady. The tweezers came out holding something small and dark. A bullet, deformed slightly from impact. He dropped it into a small metal dish with a soft clink, then reached for a cloth soaked in the clear liquid. He pressed it against the wound.

Yuche’s breath hissed out between his teeth. His good hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

Blood welled up around the fabric, but it wasn’t gushing. Chenghai’s hands stayed steady as he applied pressure, counting silently under his breath. After a moment, he lifted the cloth, checked the wound, then reached for the gauze.

I stepped further into the room, my gaze moving over Yuche’s torso as I passed. My eyes stopped on his well defined eight pack.

Huh... didn’t see that coming.

I didn’t stop to look longer, but that wouldn’t mean the view wouldn’t live rent free in my head for a little while.

Wei Lingyun stood near the door, the second gun in his hand. It wasn’t raised, but ready for anything that moved. His finger rested alongside the trigger guard and his eyes tracked the room—the door, the window, the men, me. He didn’t relax. Didn’t shift his weight. Just watched.

Zhenlan was moving around the other side of the room, resetting things. The bloody sheets were gone, replaced with clean ones. He’d folded the old ones into a tight pile near the corner, out of the way but not hidden. The new sheets were pale blue, pulled tight across the mattress with hospital corners.

Yuche shifted slightly, his good hand bracing against the floor as Chenghai wrapped his shoulder. His breathing was controlled, deliberate. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He didn’t look at me.

I walked past them toward the bed.

The mattress had new sheets and I couldn’t help but appreciate just how fast Zhenlan could work. I climbed onto the bed and settled in, pulling the blanket up over my shoulders.

I adjusted my position, lying on my side, facing the room. The pillow was soft beneath my head. The towel around my hair was still damp, but I didn’t care.

Behind me, Chenghai was wrapping Yuche’s shoulder. The sound of tape tearing—sharp, quick. Fabric rustling as he secured the gauze. Yuche’s breathing, steady and even despite the pain. A quiet exhale as Chenghai finished.

Lingyun hadn’t moved from the door. His eyes flicked to me briefly, then back to the hallway beyond. His grip on the gun shifted slightly, adjusting his hold.

Zhenlan finished whatever he was doing and sat down on the floor near the window, his back against the wall. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Just settled in and went still.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my neck and closed my eyes.

Sleep wasn’t about safety. It was about being tired. And I was.

The bed was soft beneath me. The room was warm. My body was clean.

That was enough.

I let myself drift into the sweet oblivion of dreams.

Behind me, someone shifted. Fabric rustled. A quiet exhale. Chenghai packing up the kit, maybe. Or Yuche adjusting his position against the wall.

The footsteps outside continued. Steady. Unending. A voice rose slightly, then dropped again. Laughter echoed from somewhere distant—harsh, sharp.

The men didn’t sleep that night.

But I did.