Winter came early that year.
The wind howled through the skeletons of buildings, snow dusting the ruins of Hyosan like ash from a funeral pyre. What little remained of the city was quarantined by fences and silence. No broadcasts. No recovery teams. Just the long, uneasy stillness of a place that had seen too much death.
The government said nothing. Survivors were listed as "missing." Families grieved quietly, or not at all. It was easier to pretend the city had simply vanished than admit what really happened.
In a hidden military compound miles away, officials replayed footage: thermal scans, intercepted cell phone videos, body cams from fallen soldiers. They spoke in hushed tones about "variants" and "containment failure." Files were stamped confidential and buried deep.
But the story wasn't over.
On the edge of the restricted zone, On-jo and Su-hyeok lit a small candle. It was Cheong-san's birthday. The others stood around it, solemn and silent. No one spoke, but in that flickering light, they remembered: his smile, his courage, the way he'd looked back one last time before the fire took him.
Nam-ra watched from afar, perched on a rooftop like a ghost. She didn't cry—she couldn't anymore—but something in her chest ached. Behind her, shadows moved: others like her. Half-turned. Lost. Confused. She was their protector now, their reluctant leader. And she would keep them hidden. For now.
But she knew the virus hadn't died in Hyosan. It had changed. Evolved. Quietly.
Somewhere, deep underground, in a sealed lab long abandoned, something stirred. A single heartbeat echoed in the dark. A pair of eyes opened—bloodshot, aware, hungry.
Season 1 of All of Us Are Dead had ended.
But survival was just the first chapter.
And the dead never stay buried for long.