Chapter 225: The Zombies Are Inside the Walls.
Max Donman stood at the window with his arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders bunched like he was holding the whole damn night on his back, his blonde hair glowing almost white under the apartment lights behind him.
He wasn’t looking at anything in particular in the concrete yard below—just staring through the glass, eyes unfocused, jaw locked.
The moon was strong tonight, laying flat, bone-white light across the ground, turning every crack in the pavement into sharp black lines. The apartment lamps behind him threw his shadow long and distorted against the glass, the outline of his head and shoulders stretching out like a warning.
He’d been standing there long enough that Becky had stopped watching him. The low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the building were the only sounds for a while.
A low murmuring came from the bedroom—restless, half-formed words tangled in sleep or nightmare, too muffled to make out.
Becky sat curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, blonde braids falling over one shoulder. Her eyes were closed. She held the posture of someone who had earned the right to rest and was taking it, shoulders relaxed against the cushions, head tilted slightly back. Her breathing was slow and even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that almost looked peaceful.
"Where’s Ingrid?" Max asked, voice low and rough.
"She’s on her way," Becky said without opening her eyes. "She has to be."
Max turned slowly from the window. The movement made his shadow slide across the wall like something alive. He crossed toward her, studying the way she sat—the deliberate ease of it, the way her hands rested loose in her lap. Eyes closed. Breathing even. As though the night had been completely ordinary, as if Riya Belmonte’s hadn’t turned up dead.
"You killed her." The words fell flat between them. He stopped right in front of her, looking down.
Becky opened her eyes slowly, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The lamplight caught the sharp blue of her irises. "No, I didn’t."
"Becky—"
"Max." She sat up straight, the calm dropping off her like a blanket. Her braids swung with the motion as she planted her feet on the floor. "Why the hell would I kill her before I got what we needed? Use your head. It doesn’t make sense and you know it."
He nodded once, jaw tight. The belief was already there—he’d known it before he accused her—but the words had clawed their way out anyway. Weeks of the mission grinding him down had left cracks everywhere.
"I found her dead," Becky continued, voice edged with exhaustion. She pushed a loose braid back behind her ear. "When I got there, she was already gone. I think it was the Veyron girl. The one the oracle warned us about before we left Goth."
Max’s mouth twitched into a tired half-smile despite everything. The unknown Veyron girl. Still sounded like a ghost story meant to keep them paranoid.
"I’m sorry, Becky," he said, the words scraping out. "I believe you."
"No you don’t." She rose to her feet in one smooth motion, closing the distance until they were almost chest to chest. Her braids brushed her collarbone. "You believe me when it’s easy. You doubt me when the weight gets heavy. I know what Goth means to you, Max. But it means something to me too." Her voice sharpened, low and precise. "You’re not the only one carrying it."
Something flickered across Max’s face—regret, maybe shame—tightening the skin around his eyes. His hands came up and settled on her shoulders, fingers pressing into the fabric of her shirt.
""Becky. I know. I’m sorry. I just—"
A sharp, deliberate knock cut through the apartment.
She stepped back out of his grip before he could finish, leaving the sentence hanging in the air between them, unfinished and heavy. She crossed to the door on bare feet, the floorboards creaking softly under her weight, and opened it.
Ingrid stepped inside. The overhead light gleamed off her smooth bald head as she crossed the threshold. Her dark eyes swept the room once before the door clicked shut behind her, sealing the three of them in the warm lamplight while the cold moonlight kept watch outside.
"Sorry I’m late," Ingrid said, dropping onto the couch with a heavy breath. Her bald head gleamed under the light as she leaned back, chest still rising and falling.
"It’s okay," Becky replied, sliding in beside her. Her braids swung forward as she settled, one leg tucked under her again.
Max stood there a second longer, the unfinished argument with Becky still sitting like a rock in his gut. He hated leaving shit like that hanging between them. He dragged a hand through his hair, then crossed the room and let it go—for now.
"You get it?" he asked Ingrid, voice low.
"Yeah." Ingrid reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small clear plastic box. She held it up, the thing catching the lamplight. "Had to shift into ten different people to pull this off."
Max’s mouth curved into a real smile as he took the box from her fingers, handling it carefully. "What would we do without you."
Ingrid grinned back, sharp and quick. Becky stayed leaning against the cushions, her expression locked down tight, braids resting over her shoulder like she was watching everything and giving nothing away.
"So what’s the plan?" Ingrid asked, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, full of restless energy.
"We reverse her," Max said. He dropped onto the wide arm of the couch, boots planted on the floor. "Turn her back into an infected. After that we bring the infection through the walls."
Ingrid’s smile stretched wider, teeth flashing. That was the part they’d risked everything for—the real beginning.
Max popped open the small plastic box and carefully lifted out a syringe. The needle glinted under the lamp.
From behind the closed bedroom door, the sounds grew louder—frantic shifting, rope creaking, muffled grunts of someone fighting hard against restraints that weren’t budging.
"How long before she turns?" Ingrid asked, eyes flicking toward the door.
"About two days," Max answered. He stood up, syringe in hand, and moved toward the door.
He turned the knob and pushed it open.
Inside, the specimen sat tied tight to a wooden chair under a single hanging bulb. She was completely naked, pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat, muscles straining against thick ropes that bit into her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were wide, sharp, and way too aware—nothing like the dead, cloudy stare of a normal infected.
"Please," she begged the second she saw him, voice cracking. She pulled hard against the ropes, the chair legs scraping against the floor. "Please let me go."
Max stood in the doorway for a beat, just looking at her. Then he smiled, slow and cold, and pulled the door shut behind him with a solid click. The muffled sounds of her struggling continued on the other side.
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