Doomsday Elevator

Ethan's bladder screamed louder than any zombie. He danced in the elevator's cramped space, chocolate wrapper crumpled in one hand while the other clutched his crotch. The System's alert blinked mockingly:

Current Hydration: 87%

Recommendation: Void bladder within 12 minutes

"Fucking water rationing," he hissed. The trade screen taunted him with absurd offers—someone was auctioning a Rolex for half a protein bar. His snake carcass listing remained stubbornly unsold.

The elevator shuddered. Five heat signatures pulsed on the System's minimap. Ethan gripped his machete as the doors revealed a derelict office floor. Rotting carpet squelched underfoot.

Clang!

The first zombie's skull split like overripe melon. Black ichor sprayed across "Employee of the Month" plaques. Four more shambled through a warped metal door—their milky eyes locking onto fresh meat.

"Game on, fuckers."

Ethan's boot tapped the elevator threshold like metronome. In-out. In-out. Zombie heads swiveled in grotesque synchrony.

Crack!

Machete met cranium #2. Three remaining.

By the seventh threshold tease, the undead cluster resembled macabre ballet dancers. Ethan's arm became piston—swing-retreat-swing. When the last corpse crumpled, the System chimed:

Reward Issued: P229 + 39 Rounds

He nearly wept at the food crate's contents. Three water bottles became holy grails. The real prize? The rusted door's hinges—20kg of pure iron wrenched free with last-minute desperation.