For as long as I can remember, my family and I have been living in an underground basement that's completely shut off from the outside world.

My parents have told me that the zombie apocalypse is terrorizing the outside world. The air is completely plagued with the zombie virus, and we'll die if we ever leave the basement.

In order to save the supplies—which are already dwindling, to begin with—I've starved myself to the point I'm all skin and bones despite being only 18 years old.

When I realize that there's only one last can of food left, I leave behind a suicide note.

"Mom, Dad, now there's one less mouth to feed. You'll last a few more days."

After that, I slit my wrist right away.

Once I'm dead, my soul phases through the thick and heavy metal door.

Bright sunlight illuminates the entire world. It's a beautiful, peaceful world filled with greenery. I can even hear birds chirping in the distance.

Mom, Dad, and a bunch of people are throwing a barbecue party on the lawn. The mouth-watering smell of food being grilled permeates the air.

So, it turns out that the zombie apocalypse is just a lie that's designated to trap me inside the fortress. I'm the only one who has died in this sunny, peaceful world.

"This ribeye is cooked just right. Leave it a minute longer, and it'll be too tough to chew. Gerald, give it a taste."

A familiar voice drifted to me. I floated in midair, eyes fixed on the man raising a glass of red wine. It was Dad.

He wore casual clothes and was relaxed in a way I had never seen before. The woman beside him, dressed in a silk gown and cutting her steak with quiet grace, was Mom.

"Not bad at all." Gerald Calcraft, a heavyset man, swallowed his beef and gave a thumbs-up.

"You two really know how to live it up. This place is gorgeous."

I looked down at my transparent hands. Ten minutes ago, those same hands had been soaked in blood.

Down in that moldy basement, I had been sawing at my wrist with the sharp edge of a tin can, bit by bit, so they could have one more meal. The pain tore through my whole body.

I thought I was doing something brave. I thought I was saving my parents.

"Speaking of which…" Gerald set down his wine glass and pointed at the lawn beneath their feet.

"How's your kid holding up down there? Most parents wouldn't have the nerve to put their child through something like this. Total isolation, end-of-the-world style."

Dad cut his meat without a single pause, the knife scraping softly against the plate. He speared a piece, chewed slowly, and only spoke once he swallowed.

"Couldn't stomach it? That's the parents who are failing their kids. Young people today are way too soft.

"You'll never know what they're capable of if you don't push someone to the edge. We're giving her the ability to actually survive out there. That's what real parenting looks like."

Mom took a quiet sip of her wine.

"I just glanced at the data. She's doing well and already broke the record for the 72-hour fast. This kid's potential is the kind you have to force out."

I hung above their heads, wanting to scream, wanting to claw at those smug, composed faces. A fast? They were calling it a fast?

That was the last of our food. All three of us had been sharing it, and I went without so they could eat. My stomach churned with acid. I chewed on the wooden frame of my bed just to feel something.

"You two are bold, I'll give you that," another woman at the table said, shaking her head with a little laugh. The tone was pure admiration.

"If I had that kind of nerve, my lazy son would have actually turned out decent by now. Honestly, you two are way ahead of the rest of us. This kind of extreme, end-of-the-world environment. Truly elite parenting at its finest."

Dad smiled, quiet and self-satisfied. "Kids these days are completely spoiled. The second things get hard, they fall apart. All we're doing is cutting the weakness out of her so she can become something stronger. Something genuinely new."

I was so hungry. I drifted to the edge of the table and reached for the steak on Dad's plate. My hand passed straight through.

Right. I was dead. I didn't even qualify as their test subject anymore.

A big dog nearby seemed to sense something. It barked twice, sharp and sudden, aimed right at where I was floating. Dad frowned and gave its head a pat.

"Settle down, Max. You're one of the observers. Act like it."

A dog? An observer?

I stared at the small camera strapped around its neck, and everything suddenly made sense. The "mutant creature" I had seen lurking in the basement was this dog.

Dad had told me it was some kind of dangerous monster from the outside and made me hide. I pressed myself under the bed, trembling, too scared to even breathe.

So to them, I was worth less than a dog. The dog got to be an observer, got fed, and got to sit in the sun.

Me? I was just a data point. Something to be used and thrown away.

Mom glanced down at her diamond-studded watch. "It's almost time. Ten more minutes and we can start today's stress test."

She looked over at Dad. "We should shake things up a little. She's been way too quiet the past couple of days."

Dad nodded and pulled a remote out of his pocket. "Yeah, the readings have been too flat. It's not useful. Since everyone's here anyway, why don't we all watch today's feed?"

He gestured toward a massive LED screen set up not far from the table. It flickered on, the image almost completely dark, save for one small corner lit up by the cold, pale glow of an emergency light.

That was the basement I had lived in for 18 years.

Everyone set down their glasses and cutlery and turned their chairs toward the screen. Dad tapped a few buttons on his tablet, and the image flickered before sharpening into focus.

"Highlights From the Past 72 Hours." The title was bold and red.

On screen, I was on my knees, tongue pressed against the joint of a water pipe, lapping up the droplets that seeped through. The water tasted of rust and rot. But I drank greedily, desperately. I just wanted to stay alive.

A low murmur of appreciation rippled across the lawn.

"Oh wow, look at that survival instinct. It's almost perfect."

A woman with glasses pushed her frames up her nose, eyes glued to the screen. "The way she's positioned, she's completely let go of any sense of dignity. It's just pure animal instinct."

Dad stood beside the screen like a museum curator, laser pointer in hand. The red dot landed on my dirty face.

"Everyone, pay close attention to her eyes." He traced a small circle around my eye sockets with the laser.

"See how her pupils are blown wide? There's nothing in her expression except thirst. That's raw, unfiltered survival instinct. We've been living in civilization for so long, most of us have forgotten what that even looks like."

Raw survival instinct? I was crouched in that corner, drinking filthy water, thinking about nothing except whether drinking a little less might mean a little more for Mom and Dad. Love and sacrifice were all I knew.

And to them, that was animal instinct?

The footage cut to another clip, from the last time I got sick. I lay curled up in my tattered blankets, fever burning so hot my face was flushed a violent red.

I was muttering nonsense, whimpering, "Mom, it hurts. Mom, please."

The guests let out a collective sigh.

"Oh goodness, that looks awful. Is she actually going to be okay?" A woman in a floral dress wrinkled her nose, holding a cookie.

Mom lounged in her chair, swirling her wine glass with a relaxed smile. "Don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Her voice was breezy, almost casual, like she was talking about trimming a houseplant. "I watched the whole thing. The fever was just her immune system rebuilding itself.

"Her body can only break through its limits if it's been pushed right up against death. Kids these days are so used to being pampered that they can't handle a little fever. How are they supposed to handle something like this when the time comes?"

I listened to Mom describe my suffering like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

I had thought they were out there risking their lives, searching for medicine, dodging danger just to keep me safe. So, I bit down on my blanket and swallowed every cry, terrified of worrying them.

But she had been watching the whole time, watching me writhe like a dying animal, right there on that screen. They had recorded every second of it, turned my worst moments into something to show off at dinner parties.

The bald man at the table raised his glass with an approving nod. "Mrs. Sands, you really are something. That kind of nerve is not something the rest of us can pull off."

Dad chuckled and switched to the next slide. A red line graph filled the screen, labeled "Supply Drop Records."

"Here's the thing, though. That can of food wasn't actually the last one." He pointed to a data point on the graph, a hint of pride creeping into his tone.

"There was still one more tin of spam left. I told her it was the last one in the world. That without it, all three of us would starve.

"That was the 'desperation threshold' test. I wanted to see what she would choose. Eat her parents' share to survive, or go without and sacrifice herself."

The guests nodded along, eyes wide with understanding. Someone started clapping. The others joined in, a smattering of applause drifting across the lawn.

"Now that is a real experiment into human nature," the bald man called out, lifting his glass high.

Every glass clinked together. The sound rang out, sharp and bright, cutting through the warm evening air. Everything about this evening, the food, the wine, the laughter, was built on top of me.

Mom took a sip of her wine, a small crease forming between her brows. "That said, the data has been a little flat the past few days. She just stays curled up in the same corner, not moving. I think she's adapted to this level of starvation. Her body's gone into some kind of conservation mode."

She sounded mildly annoyed. "This kid adapts too well. Sometimes that's actually a problem."

It almost sounded like surviving was inconveniencing her.

Dad set down his glass and straightened his collar. A flicker of excitement crossed his face.

"Well then. No point waiting." He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"Let's go ahead and run the 'zombie siege' simulation. Once we get past that last wall in her head, we can finish the whole thing ahead of schedule."

He rubbed his hands together, energized, and strode toward the massive control panel. "The real show is about to start, folks. Keep your eyes on the big screen."

His fingers hovered over a red button. I rushed toward him, tried to grab his arm, but my hands passed right through him like smoke.

"Stop! Don't press it! I'm already dead! Please stop torturing what's left of me!"

But no one could hear my voice. No one could see my tears.

Dad's finger came down.

The speakers blared to life, filling the air with growling, snarling, and the scrape of claws against metal, all of it piled on top of each other in a way that made everyone's skin crawl.

It was probably some kind of custom sound effect my parents had paid good money to have made. Even out here on the sunlit lawn, it was enough to set anyone's nerves on edge.

The guests shifted uneasily in their chairs. A few of the women clapped their hands over their ears.

"That's incredibly realistic. You've got some serious equipment here, Mr. Sands." The bald man let out a dry laugh, covering up his discomfort.

On screen, the image started shaking violently, a simulation of something slamming into the walls. Dad stood over the monitor, brow creasing as he watched. The thin figure curled up in the corner didn't move, not a single flinch.

"Something's off," Dad muttered, more to himself than anyone, his fingers tapping rapidly across the control panel.

"The adrenaline should be spiking right now. She should be jumping up, looking for something to fight with, or pounding on the door. Why isn't she reacting at all?"

He cranked the volume all the way up. The slamming sounds hit like a battering ram, loud enough to rattle something deep in their chests.

Even Max tucked his tail and scrambled under the table. On screen, though, the girl didn't move. No one could even tell she was breathing.

Mom frowned at the screen. "Is she doing this on purpose? Is she trying to spite us?"

She turned to Dad, her voice sharp. "Did you push too hard last time? Maybe you made her think there's no point anymore."

Dad shook his head, looking genuinely stumped. "That can't be it. Self-preservation is instinct. Unless..."

He trailed off, something flickering across his face, then dismissed it just as quickly. "Could it be the starvation? If she's been going without for this long, her body might have shut down into a kind of hibernation state to conserve energy."

Mom nodded slowly, accepting that. "This kid is sharper than we gave her credit for. She knows that moving around right now would just burn through what little energy she has left, so she's playing dead to avoid the fear.

"Her mental resilience might actually be higher than we estimated."

Even now, they were still using their ridiculous theories to explain away my death. It never once crossed their minds that I might actually be gone.

To them, I was something unbreakable, a toy they could toss around, and it would always bounce right back.

The guests relaxed at that, letting out relieved sighs, nodding along.

"Well, she is a professor's daughter after all. Cool as a cucumber under pressure. That young lady is going to go far someday."

Dad soaked in the praise, though something still nagged at him. He had put together a whole grand finale, but the star of the show wasn't playing along. That made him look bad in front of everyone.

"Looks like we'll need a hands-on demonstration." He stood, straightened his collar, and spread his arms out to the group with an easy smile.

"Since watching from here isn't getting us anywhere, why don't I take you all down for a close-up look? See this hibernation state for yourselves."

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd. This was so much more thrilling than just sitting here staring at a screen.

"Let's go, let's go. I want to see this legendary underground bunker for myself." The bald man was already on his feet, leading the charge.

I threw myself in front of them, arms spread wide, blocking the path.

"Don't go. Please. Just leave me some dignity. Don't look at me like that! Don't look at what's down there!"

That was my body down there, the most wretched, humiliated, broken version of me imaginable. I didn't want to become cocktail conversation, and I didn't want them crowding around my corpse and picking apart every detail.

None of it mattered. They walked right through me, laughing and chatting, heading toward the back of the garden where a cluster of decorative rocks sat behind a low wall. Tucked behind them was an entrance, camouflaged so well that anyone could walk right past it without a second glance.

Dad led the way, punching a code into a panel on the rock face. A low rumble vibrated through the ground, and the rock slid open to reveal a heavy steel door, thick aindustrial-lookinging.

"This door is rated for the highest blast resistance out there," Dad said as he walked through, one hand slapping proudly against the metal.

"This could withstand a nuclear blast if it had to. Even if something truly catastrophic happened out there, this place would hold."

Sure, it was absolutely safe. Solid enough to keep out any monster from the outside world. Solid enough to lock a living person inside until she became a ghost.