---
---
The house was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that wrapped around your neck like a noose.
Not peace.
Not safety.
Just waiting.
I stood frozen in the middle of the ruined living room, staring at the thing that used to be my uncle.
He knelt there, head bowed, like some twisted knight waiting for orders from a king.
My breath came in shallow gasps.
My mind screamed at me to run, to hide, to pretend this wasn't happening.
But my heart...
It beat differently now.
Steadier.
Stronger.
I took a step forward.
The sound of my bare foot brushing the dusty floor was deafening in the silence.
He didn't move.
Didn't growl.
Didn't attack.
"Stand," I said.
Barely more than a whisper.
And he obeyed.
Slowly, awkwardly, bones cracking with the motion, he rose to his feet.
His head hung low, as if even looking at me without permission was forbidden.
My chest tightened.
Was this real?
Was I dreaming?
Dead men didn't listen to nobodies.
Dead men didn't kneel to cowards.
I needed to be sure.
Outside, beyond the broken window, more figures stood motionless.
A dozen of them, maybe more.
Rotting. Twisted. Still.
I stepped closer to the door, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.
My hand trembled as I reached for the knob.
The door creaked open.
The cool night air hit me first, sharp and heavy with the stench of decay.
The moans of the dead drifted on the wind — low, hungry, endless.
I swallowed hard.
"Come," I said.
The word was simple.
Soft.
Almost embarrassed.
And yet... they moved.
All of them.
As one.
Dragging their broken bodies across the lawn, stumbling over roots and wreckage, but never once taking their dead eyes off me.
They gathered in front of me like an army summoned from nightmares.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Obeying.
A laugh broke from my throat — sharp, raw, half-crazed.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, horrified by the sound.
But it was too late.
The truth had already clawed its way out:
I had power.
Real, undeniable, monstrous power.
And it had been born not from strength or pride,
but from loneliness.
From pain.
From all the broken pieces of myself that no one had ever wanted.
---
I took another step onto the porch.
The rotten wood groaned under my weight.
A few of the dead twitched at the sound, as if eager to move at my slightest discomfort.
I narrowed my eyes.
Focus, I thought.
Control them.
Own them.
"Line up," I ordered, my voice a little stronger this time.
And like puppets with strings tied to their bones, they did.
Crooked lines.
Gaping mouths.
Blood dripping onto the cracked cement.
A parade of death — and it was mine.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't the one being pushed around.
I wasn't the one being ignored, mocked, or pitied.
They saw me.
They needed me.
They feared me.
And deep down, some dark part of me whispered:
You deserve this.
---
I spent the rest of the night testing the limits.
I made them sit.
Stand.
Crawl.
Lay still.
I made them turn on each other — though they seemed reluctant, almost confused by the order.
It wasn't pure, blind control.
There were rules.
Invisible chains that tied us together.
Rules I didn't yet understand.
But one thing was clear:
My voice mattered.
My emotions mattered.
When I felt strong, they obeyed faster.
When I hesitated, they twitched and shuddered, like dogs sensing a weak master.
I wasn't just telling them what to do.
I was commanding them with the very core of my being.
Power wasn't about yelling louder.
It was about believing you had the right to be heard.
And now?
After all the years of silence?
I believed it.
---
Dawn crept in slowly, staining the ruined world in pale grey.
The sky was a sheet of ash.
The streets were empty except for the dead.
No cars.
No sirens.
No hope.
Good.
Hope had never done anything for me anyway.
I sat on the porch, my loyal nightmares standing guard around me, and watched the world end.
And for the first time in forever...
I smiled.
---
It didn't last.
Around mid-morning, I heard them.
Voices.
Human voices.
Shouts.
Gunshots.
Curses.
I stood up sharply, the hair on my arms rising.
People were coming.
Survivors.
Normal logic said I should be happy.
Find safety in numbers.
Find hope in community.
But all I felt was... disgust.
The same people who used to laugh at me.
The same people who would've watched me starve without blinking.
The same people who would shove past me to save themselves without a second thought.
Now they were desperate.
Now they would need.
And the idea of helping them?
It made bile rise in my throat.
I clenched my fists, cold fury simmering under my skin.
No.
Not this time.
This world wasn't theirs anymore.
It was mine.
---
I crouched low behind the half-collapsed fence and watched them approach.
A group of five — three men, two women.
Armed with pipes, knives, anything they could find.
Blood smeared on their clothes.
Panic in their eyes.
They were fast.
Efficient.
Tough.
The kind of survivors that would've eaten a weakling like me alive in the old world.
I watched them glance around nervously, looking for threats.
They didn't even see me.
Just like before.
Just like always.
And yet, I wasn't invisible now.
I was waiting.
I glanced at my army.
The dead shifted restlessly, picking up on my rising pulse, my silent anger.
I didn't have to say a word.
They felt it.
Attack.
---
The street exploded into chaos.
The dead surged forward, silent at first, then moaning louder as they closed in.
The survivors screamed, slashing wildly, trying to fight back.
They managed to take a few down — bashing skulls, stabbing hearts.
But it didn't matter.
For every one they killed, two more closed in.
Mindless. Unstoppable.
Driven by my will.
I stood back and watched.
Expressionless.
Calm.
Was this revenge?
Was this justice?
I didn't know.
All I knew was that the world had turned upside down.
And for once, I wasn't at the bottom.
---
When it was over, only one of them was left alive.
A girl.
Maybe a little older than me — dirty brown hair, blood splattered across her face.
She stumbled backwards, sobbing, weaponless.
"Please," she whimpered. "Please, I'm not— I didn't—"
I stepped forward, the dead parting around me like water.
She froze when she saw me.
Really saw me.
Maybe it was the look in my eyes.
Maybe it was the way the corpses bowed their heads when I passed.
She knew.
She knew I was the one doing this.
Her mouth opened to beg.
I didn't give her the chance.
"Leave," I said coldly.
"Tell them. Tell them what you saw here."
She nodded frantically, stumbling away down the ruined street, leaving behind the smell of death and defeat.
I watched her go, feeling nothing.
Because fear was better than pity.
Terror was better than indifference.
I was the king of the dead.
And soon, the living would learn to kneel too.
---