"I'm not going down." The words tore from Smile's throat, half-snarl, half-prayer. "If I do, I'm taking you with me."

  His molars ground together so hard he tasted copper. Fire licked through his arms—not metaphorical fire, but the real burn of muscles pushed past their limit.

  His shoulders felt like they were tearing apart, fibers shredding one by one as he held the zombie back. His palms pressed flat against its chest, fingers sinking into flesh that gave like overripe fruit, cold and wet and ‘wrong’.

  "Rargh! Rargh! Rargh!"

  The creature's snarl vibrated through Smile's hands, into his bones. Saliva—thick as motor oil, black–green as tar—dripped from its mouth in long, viscous strings. The drops hit his collarbone. They were warm.

  The stench rolled over him in waves: rot and sewage and something sweet underneath, like fruit left too long in the sun. Its teeth snapped an inch from his nose. Close enough that he could count them. Rows of them. Jagged. Yellow-brown. Shark teeth in a human mouth.

  ‘Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.’

  His heart slammed against his ribs like a fist trying to break through. Each beat shook his entire chest. His breath came in short, desperate gulps—never enough air, never enough—and the zombie's weight crushed down on him, relentless as a landslide.

  Cold radiated from its body. Not the cold of winter, but the cold of a morgue. Of a grave. The weight of death itself pressing him into the pavement.

  Pain pulsed behind his eyes in sharp, white bursts. Each throb sent lightning through his skull, blinding him for half-seconds at a time. His jaw ached—deep, bone-deep—like someone had taken a hammer to it and kept swinging. Every heartbeat sent fresh agony rippling through his face, his neck, his temples.

  But his hands didn't let go. Couldn't let go.

  "Rargh!"

  The zombie lunged. Its teeth grazed his cheek—a cold scrape, like being touched by a blade fresh from the freezer. Smile jerked his head sideways, neck muscles screaming, tendons straining to the point of snapping. His arms shook. Tremors ran from his shoulders to his fingertips. He had seconds left. Maybe less.

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  Then came the other pain.

  His stomach twisted, cramping so hard he nearly vomited. This wasn't the pain of exertion. This was deeper. Hotter. It felt like something with claws had crawled inside him and was tearing its way through his organs, shredding his gut from the inside out. Fire spread through his abdomen, burning, ‘burning’—

  He gritted his teeth until his jaw creaked. Sweat poured down his face in rivers, stinging his eyes, blurring his vision into a watercolor smear of gray sky and rotting flesh.

  "Fine." His voice came out in a ragged growl, barely human. "Fine, you dirty zombie. I'm going to give you what you want."

  He shifted his weight. Just slightly. Just enough. His body twisted to the side, creating a pivot point—physics, leverage, the only advantage he had left. The zombie's full weight pressed down on his chest, his shoulders, but his legs were free.

  That was all he needed.

  Smile let the zombie fall forward. Its weight collapsed onto him, crushing the air from his lungs. For one split second—one terrible, stretched-out moment—the creature's teeth hovered over his throat. It thought it had won.

  Then Smile “pushed”.

  He threw his body upward with everything he had left. His muscles screamed. His ribs felt like they were cracking. But momentum carried them over, flipping their positions, and he landed on top with his knees slamming into the zombie's chest. The impact jarred through his bones, rattling his teeth.

  Before the creature could thrash, before it could claw at him, Smile lunged.

  His mouth opened wide. He bit down into the zombie's neck.

  His teeth tore through flesh—cold, rubbery, ‘wrong’. Blood flooded his mouth, thick and viscous, tasting of metal and rot and something chemical that made his tongue go numb.

  He felt the texture of it: the skin giving way, the muscle beneath like old rubber bands, the slick coating of decay. Every instinct screamed at him to stop, to pull back, to ‘gag’—

  But survival didn't care about instinct.

  He ripped out a chunk of undead meat. Black-green blood oozed from the wound, thick as syrup, and the taste hit him full force—metallic, rotten, bitter enough to make his eyes water.

  He should have gagged. Should have recoiled.

  He bit again.

  Deeper this time. His teeth sank into the zombie's throat. He pulled. Twisted. Tore. The flesh came away in strips.

  ‘You kill a snake by cutting off its head.’

  That's what he'd do. Tear the head clean off.

  The zombie thrashed beneath him, arms flailing, nails raking across his ribs. Hot pain flared where they cut through his shirt, through his skin. He felt blood—his own blood, warm and wet—trickling down his sides.

  Smile didn't stop.

  He bit down again. And again. Each time, his teeth sank deeper. Each time, more flesh came away. His jaw worked like a machine, tearing, ripping, consuming—

  Then something changed.

  His teeth felt different. Longer. The pressure in his gums shifted, a strange stretching sensation, and when he bit down again, his teeth slid through the zombie's flesh like knives through butter.

  Fangs.

  He had fangs.

  They'd extended without him noticing—long, curved, needle-sharp. He felt them with his tongue: smooth enamel tapering to points so fine they could pierce steel. They sank into the zombie's neck effortlessly, and with each bite, more blood filled his mouth.

  He swallowed without thinking.

  The hunger that had been clawing at his insides began to fade. The fire in his gut cooled. The pain in his jaw dulled to a distant ache. A tingling sensation spread through his body—starting at his mouth, crawling down his throat, spreading through his chest like warm honey.

  It felt... ‘good’.