Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 74: Setting Boundaries

The house was quiet in the middle of the night.

So quiet that even a mouse would run away in fear of what came next.

I’ll give you a hint.

It wasn’t Santa.

I moved through the hallway barefoot, my steps silent on the worn floorboards. I had lived here long enough to know which ones betrayed you and which ones didn’t. The third board from the bathroom. The fifth from the stairs. The one outside Zhenlan’s door that groaned if you stepped wrong.

I avoided them all.

The air felt different at night. Cooler. Still. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace, just the absence of movement. It settled into the walls, into the floorboards, into the space between breaths. Even the house seemed to be listening.

The survivors were asleep.

Most of them.

One room had a steady snore, loud enough to be annoying and careless enough to be dangerous. The kind of sleep that came from thinking you were safe. Someone else shifted in their bed down the hall, the faint rustle of fabric carrying further than it should have in the silence.

They were getting comfortable.

That wouldn’t last.

Scar Face’s room was at the end of the hall.

I turned the handle slowly and let the door open just enough to slip through. The room was darker than the hallway, the window facing away from the streetlights. It took a second for the shapes to settle into place—the bed against the far wall, the chair near the window, the dresser with its drawers half-open.

Clothes were everywhere.

A shirt on the floor. Boots kicked off near the bed. A jacket slung over the back of the chair, one sleeve hanging lower than the other. The room smelled like sweat and stale air, the kind of smell that came from not caring where you were.

He was on his back, one arm thrown over his face, breathing slow and deep. The blanket was twisted around his legs, one foot hanging off the edge of the mattress. Completely exposed. Completely unaware.

He didn’t hear me close the door.

He didn’t hear me cross the room.

He didn’t hear anything.

I stopped beside the bed and watched him for a moment.

Then I pressed the barrel under his jaw.

Not hard.

Just enough.

His body reacted before his mind did. His breathing changed first, the steady rhythm breaking into something tighter, more controlled. Then his eyes opened, unfocused for a second before locking onto mine.

He didn’t move.

Good.

"You snore," I murmured. "Did you know that?"

His throat worked against the barrel. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The confusion lasted less than a second before it turned into understanding. I watched it happen, the exact moment his brain caught up to where he was and what was touching his skin.

"Don’t move," I added. "You’ll make this worse."

He froze completely, his hands tightening in the sheets. His fingers curled into the fabric hard enough to pull it taut, the tension running through his entire body as he forced himself to stay still.

"You’ve been making a mess," I continued, my voice steady. "Breaking things. Leaving them where they fall. Tracking dirt through the house like it doesn’t matter."

His eyes flicked toward the door.

I pressed the gun slightly harder.

His attention snapped back to me.

"I don’t like messes," I said.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.

"They build up. They spread. And then everything starts to fall apart."

His breathing was uneven now. Fast. Shallow. Sweat gathered at his temple and along his hairline, catching what little light there was.

"You’re in my house," I continued. "You eat my food. You sleep in my rooms. You use my space."

I tilted my head slightly, watching him.

"That makes you a guest."

His fingers twitched again.

I didn’t let him speak.

"I’m going to make this simple," I said. "You clean up after yourself. You stay out of my space. You keep your voice down. You remember where you are."

His chest rose sharply, then fell. A nod followed, small and immediate, like the movement had been forced out of him before he could stop it.

He understood.

"If I have to repeat myself," I added, "it won’t go the same way."

I let that sit.

Let him fill in the rest on his own.

It was more effective that way.

"You’ve seen what happens," I continued. "People who think they can take what they want. People who think a weapon makes them safe."

His breathing hitched.

Good.

That meant he remembered.

I pulled the gun back slowly, letting the pressure ease before stepping away from the bed. He didn’t relax. Didn’t move. His eyes tracked me like he expected the distance to change something.

It didn’t.

"Clean it," I said. "All of it. Kitchen. Hallway. Living room. The porch."

He nodded again, faster this time.

"Tomorrow," I added.

He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t try.

Just watched me with wide, fixed eyes, like if he blinked I might disappear.

I didn’t.

I turned and walked to the door, my steps just as quiet as when I entered. I didn’t rush. I didn’t look back. I opened it, stepped into the hallway, and closed it behind me with a soft click.

The house settled again.

Behind me, I heard him move. The creak of the bed. A sharp inhale that didn’t quite steady itself. The sound of someone trying to breathe normally and failing. It echoed down the hallway in small, uneven bursts before fading back into silence.

I kept walking.

My feet found the safe boards without thought, avoiding the ones that gave me away. The house felt different now. Not quieter—but controlled. The kind of silence that came from understanding, not absence.

By the time I reached my room, the tension had settled into the walls again.

Waiting.

I set the gun aside and slid into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. Somewhere down the hall, he was still awake. Probably sitting up. Probably staring at the door. Probably listening for footsteps that weren’t coming.

I closed my eyes.

He would clean it tomorrow.

He would follow the rules.

And if he didn’t—

there were other ways to remind him.

The house was quiet again.

And very much mine.