Fenric hadn’t broken into that house for money.
He came for a gun.
He’d already checked: the Safe Zone item store sold no live firearms. Real‑world guns couldn’t be brought into Samsara Tower. That left only one option—acquire locally inside the dungeon world.
And this wasn’t just any country. This was the United States of America, land of private ownership and retail handguns. Over‑22 citizens could buy legally; as a result, firearms saturation was high. Odds were good almost any household had something locked away.
The white woman hesitated under his glare—then gave in. "Bedroom drawer!"
The system had given Fenric a burly Western build for this mission; in that body, his stare landed like a threat. "Take me," he said. "No tricks. I only want a gun. Don’t make me hurt you—or your husband."
"O‑okay! I’ll take you!"
She led him. Moments later, he had what he needed:
Beretta M92F. Magazine loaded. Six rounds remaining.
Good enough.
"You’ve got what you wanted," the woman begged. "Please let us go..."
Fenric nodded—then chopped her across the side of the neck, dropping her unconscious beside her already downed husband.
He couldn’t risk a 911 call before the outbreak. Later, when the infection exploded, police response would collapse anyway.
He grabbed a wad of U.S. dollar bills from a wallet—fuel for immediate transport—and stepped out the front door.
A taxi rolled by. Fenric flagged it. Driver: Black, mid‑thirties, curious eyes.
"Where to, man?"
"CDC."
"Oh... you sick, buddy?"
"I’m very healthy." Fenric flashed the cash. "Get me there in ten minutes, it’s yours."
Click. Motivation achieved. "Seatbelt, sir!"
They made it in eight.
Fenric tossed the money, exited at a jog, and headed for the entrance of the Centers for Disease Control facility.
Clock check: still just over ten minutes before the system’s announced virus event.
He needed time to set the plan.
Many should be asking why the CDC?
Anyone who’d seen World War Z knew the key twist: these high‑aggression zombies ignored the terminally ill. Weak immune signatures = not viable hosts? Screenwriter logic aside, it worked.
In the movie, protagonist Gerry Lane discovered the pattern, weaponized it, and helped humanity strike back.
Fenric didn’t care about saving the world. His mission was simpler:
Survive 10 hours. Kill 10+ zombies. Score high.
If he could deliberately infect himself with a non‑lethal disease marker—something the zombies would read as "bad host"—they’d ignore him. He could roam freely, snipe, and farm kills without constant swarm risk.
To do that, he needed pathogens—attenuated, vaccine samples, anything viable.
So: CDC raid.
And in case cooperation wasn’t forthcoming? He’d brought a gun for that.
He pushed through the CDC lobby doors. A blonde nurse at reception looked up. "Hello, sir, can I—"
He didn’t answer. He scanned until he spotted a middle‑aged doctor in a white coat, name badge clipped to the pocket.
In the nurse’s widening eyes, Fenric drew the Beretta, closed the distance, hooked the doctor by the collar—and fired a warning shot into the ceiling.
Bang!
Screams tore through the hall. Patients dove to the floor. Medical staff hit the tiles on reflex.
At least they know how to respond to gunfire, Fenric thought. Better than panicking and running into the line.
He didn’t have time to argue policy.
He dragged the trembling doctor upright, muzzle firm behind the man’s ear. "Listen carefully," he said, tone flat. "You do exactly what I say, and you walk out of this. Otherwise? I ventilate your skull."
"O‑okay! Okay!" the doctor stammered.
"Good. Take me to your virus repository. Now."
"!!?"