Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 66: Power trip

The room they shoved us into was barely bigger than a storage closet.

Concrete walls. A single flickering fluorescent light. No windows. No privacy—just the illusion of it.

I paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

My boots scraped against the floor, each step grinding into my nerves. Lila sat on one of the metal chairs, completely detached from the danger around us. Her elbows rested on her knees, hands cupping her cheeks like she was daydreaming in a classroom.

Her face was on fire—an intense, unmistakable blush stretching across her nose and ears.

She looked... happy.

Too happy.

There were no pads. Of course there weren’t.

She was never on her cycle.

The lie sat in my throat like broken glass.

A sudden bang rattled the door.

"YOU GOT TEN MINUTES!" a voice barked from the other side. "THEN YOU AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND ARE GETTIN’ CHECKED TOO!"

My breath hitched.

Girlfriend.

I stared at the door, heart slamming against my ribs, then snapped my gaze back to Lila.

Ten minutes.

I moved fast.

I crossed the room in three strides and crouched in front of her, my hands already checking her jacket, her waistband, her pockets. Too fast. Too frantic.

"Do you have anything on you?" I muttered. "Anything sharp. Anything bloody. A knife—"

With her? You could never tell.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t question it.

If anything, she leaned into my touch.

My hands slid up to her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks as I tilted her head gently but firmly. I forced myself to look— really look—into her eyes.

No redness.

No film.

No signs of infection.

Thank God.

My pulse slowed just a fraction, but the relief didn’t last.

"You called me your girlfriend," Lila said softly.

Her voice cut through the room like a whisper in a cathedral.

I froze.

"I’m so happy," she continued, eyes shining—not with fear, not with stress, but with something dangerously close to bliss. "I don’t even care if I die right now."

My stomach twisted violently.

I looked at her— really looked at her. The way she smiled like this moment meant everything. Like the world ending around us was irrelevant compared to one word leaving my mouth.

Girlfriend.

Something cracked in my chest. Not loudly. Quietly. Like a hairline fracture spreading where it didn’t belong.

"Stop saying stuff like that," I said, more to myself than to her.

I straightened slowly, hands clenching at my sides.

I wasn’t planning on dying.

And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her die either.

Not here.

Not like this.

Not while I still had time.

"So much for Texas being a ray of hope..."

Peter muttered, his voice tight with fear and frustration as the line crept forward inch by inch.

The few people who had somehow made it past the checkpoint didn’t calm him at all. If anything, watching them disappear beyond the barricades only made his stomach churn harder.

Aubrey was beside him in an instant.

"What was that?" she asked sharply.

Peter scoffed under his breath. "I said the kid dragged us into this mess. Now he’s off somewhere with that crazy psycho, doing God knows what— probably trying to sneak out without us."

Aubrey stopped walking.

Her expression hardened, jaw setting like stone.

"If it weren’t for Adrian," she said coldly, "you, your slut wife, and that mute emo daughter of yours would be dead by now."

The words landed heavy.

Jane flinched at that, eyes flicking toward Aubrey for just a split second. Aubrey didn’t notice— she was already pressing on.

But Peter did.

"And don’t act like you weren’t the one who sold him on Texas in the first place."

Peter stiffened. "What? No I didn’t—..."

Aubrey narrowed her eyes.

Peter froze mid-step.

In that instant, it clicked.

Her gaze wasn’t accusing.

It was knowing.

Peter’s breath caught. His eyes widened just a fraction— enough to give him away.

"You spied on us in that tent.." He said quietly.

Before she could respond—

"HEY!" a soldier barked.

The line jolted to a halt.

"What the fuck are you two whisperin’ about?" the man snarled, rifle shifting slightly in his grip.

"Cut it out. Now."

Silence swallowed them.

Aubrey faced forward again, expression unreadable.

Peter did the same— but his hands were shaking.

And somewhere ahead of them, beyond the barricades and guns and blood-stained pavement, the kid he’d just condemned might have been the only reason they were still alive.

The seconds began to stack.

Not ticking— pressing.

I stood there, staring at the stained concrete wall, and felt something shift behind my eyes. Not panic. Panic was loud. This was quieter. Sharper.

A recalibration.

Ten minutes wasn’t time to escape.

Ten minutes was time to decide who I was going to be.

I exhaled slowly and forced my shoulders to drop.

Pacing wouldn’t help. Looking afraid wouldn’t help. Thinking like prey wouldn’t help.

I stopped moving.

That was the first crack.

I turned back to Lila. She was still smiling, legs swinging faintly like this was a waiting room and not a holding cell that reeked of bleach and old fear.

She thought the lie meant something.

That was the fracture spreading— realizing how easily words could become weapons without ever being meant that way.

I knelt again, slower this time. Controlled.

"Lila," I said quietly.

Her eyes snapped to me instantly. Laser-focused. Devoted.

I hated how useful that was.

"Listen to me," I continued, keeping my voice low and even. "When they come back, you don’t speak unless they speak to you. You don’t smile. You don’t cry. You don’t cling to me."

Her brow furrowed slightly.

"But—"

I raised a finger. Not harsh. Gentle. Like you would with a skittish animal.

"They’re not checking for sickness," I said. "They’re checking for instability."

That landed.

I saw it in the way her smile faltered— not gone, but muted. Curious.

"They’re tired," I went on. "They’ve been yelling all day. Shooting all day. Making calls they don’t want to make. The last thing they want is a scene."

I leaned closer, lowering my voice further. "So you give them nothing."

Lila nodded slowly.

Good.

Too good.

I stood and scanned the room again, but this time not as a prisoner.

As a stage.

One door. No camera that I could see—if there was one, it would be obvious. Soldiers liked to be seen watching. It scared people into behaving.

No medical supplies inside. Which meant if they wanted a check, they’d have to move us.

Movement created gaps.

Gaps created errors.

I dragged one of the metal chairs closer to Lila, positioning it at an angle—protective, but not possessive. Subtle difference. One screamed threat. The other screamed responsibility.

I sat.

Not beside her.

Slightly in front.

A shield.

The door opened earlier than expected.

Two soldiers stepped in. Same uniforms. Different energy.

The first one was young. Rifle held too tight. Eyes darting. New. Afraid. He’d follow rules to the letter.

The second was older. Beard. Tired eyes. His rifle hung lower. He was already thinking about the next twelve hours.

I focused on him.

Always focus on the one who doesn’t want to be here.

The younger one spoke first. "Alright. Stand up. We’re doing a quick—"

"She’s bleeding," I said calmly.

Both of them paused.

I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t rush the words. I let them sit in the air like a liability.

The older soldier’s eyes flicked to Lila. Then back to me.

"Cycle," I added. "Heavy."

The younger one grimaced. "That’s not—"

"You got gloves?" I asked, tilting my head. Not confrontational. Just... practical.

Silence.

I watched the older soldier’s jaw tighten.

I pressed gently. "Look, I get it. You’ve got procedures. But if she’s infected and you bring her through that checkpoint without proper screening, that’s on you. And if she’s not—"

I shrugged.

"—you just contaminated your own space for no reason."

The word contaminated did the work for me.

The older soldier exhaled through his nose. "We don’t have med clearance in here."

"I know," I said. "That’s why I said she needs to be seen by someone who does."

I didn’t say you should take us to medical.

I let him say it to himself.

The younger soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Sir—"

"Do you want to deal with this?" the older one snapped back, irritation flashing. "Or do you want to pass it off?"

That was it.

I felt something inside me settle into place.

A click.

The older soldier looked at me again, really looked this time. Not as a problem.

As paperwork.

"Any symptoms besides bleeding?" he asked.

"No fever," I said immediately. "No eye discoloration. No tremors."

I watched his eyebrows lift just slightly.

He hadn’t expected that.

"I’ve been monitoring her," I added. "I know what to look for."

That was the second fracture— realizing how easy it was to sound convincing when you knew what people were afraid of.

He nodded once. "Alright."

The younger soldier opened his mouth.

"Go get wipes," the older one ordered. "And radio medical. I want this logged as a transfer."

Transfer.

Not execution. Not screening.

A delay.

The younger soldier hesitated— then obeyed.

The door shut again.

I stayed seated until the footsteps faded.

Only then did my hands start shaking.

I clenched them together, knuckles whitening, breathing slow and measured as something ugly and cold curled in my chest.

I’d enjoyed it.

Not the danger.

The control.

I looked at Lila.

She was staring at me like I’d hung the sun in the sky.

"You’re amazing," she whispered.

Something inside me recoiled.

Something else stayed very, very still.

"This isn’t over," I said quietly. "Do you understand?"

She nodded eagerly.

I looked away.

Ten minutes had turned into leverage.

And I wasn’t sure anymore whether that terrified me—

or whether it came far too naturally.