Julian Cross
I had just found out I was a perfect match and was preparing to donate a kidney to my wife’s foster brother.
That night, he left his iPad in the living room, and the screen lit up with a chat history between him and a doctor.
“Doctor Evans, whatever you do, don’t tell my brother-in-law,” the message read. “If his kidney is removed, his hidden heart condition will flare up, and he won’t last three months.”
The next day, I decisively canceled the donation.
My wife was furious, calling me cold-blooded and forcing me to sign a divorce agreement that left me with absolutely nothing.
A day later, I overheard his smug laughter from outside his hospital room.
“He’s so stupid,” Boyd said. “I just photoshopped a fake chat log, and he actually believed he was sick. Now, we’ve stolen his luxury penthouse, and we can finally be together out in the open.”
My wife kissed him. “Good boy. I’ll buy you a better kidney on the black market later.”
Standing outside the door, I sneered. Of course, I knew the record was fake.
After all, I had just reincarnated from the future. In half a month, a zombie apocalypse would strike, and this toxic pair of secret lovers would not only steal my medicine but also throw me to the undead.
This time, with only three days left before the city is overrun by zombies, I want to see something.
I want to see exactly how many days a sick bastard without a kidney transplant and a heartless woman without any survival supplies can last inside my luxury penthouse.