No one had ever used the word "surprise" to describe me. My husband in my past life, Oliver, would always look irritated the moment he saw me, as if he were a stick of dynamite and I was the match poised to ignite him.

One night, Oliver had come home drunk, reeking of alcohol, muttering Lina's name under his breath.

Worried that he'd feel awful in the morning, I used the rare honey I'd been saving to sober him up. But he shoved me away without a second thought.

The glass of honey water shattered against the floor. I fell hard, shards of glass piercing my skin, carving countless wounds into my flesh.

Blood pooled beneath me. I groaned in pain, but Oliver just crossed his arms and watched, cold and satisfied.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, voice devoid of sympathy. "But no matter how much pain you're in, it's not even a fraction of what Lina felt when she died."

I stared up at him, stunned, my heart aching far worse than my torn skin.

When our eyes met, he didn't flinch. Instead, he sneered.

Slowly, I pushed myself off the ground, standing in silence before saying, "But Lina was killed by zombies, not me. And it was you who pulled me into that truck, not me. And yet, all you do is blame me. Don't you think that's unfair?"

"No," he said. "This is your fault. If you hadn't said you loved me, I never would have been forced into this marriage."

The alcohol was wearing off by then. Oliver's accusations came quick and precise, like a seasoned debater delivering a final, decisive blow.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Forced? Oliver, you always act like you have no choice. Are you incapable of saying no? You didn't have the strength to kill all the zombies, nor the courage to refuse my family's power. So instead, you turn your blade on me—your wife. If there were a competition for cowardice, you'd win first place."

I staggered outside to find a healer. Behind me, I heard the sound of Oliver smashing things in rage.

From that night on, our relationship froze over completely. He began treating me as his sworn enemy, and I no longer wasted a shred of warmth on him.

Yet now, something even Oliver had never done for me, a stranger had.

Ace worried if I had the strength to keep going. He worried if I was cold.

He was strong, but not cruel. It had been so long since I'd felt the warmth of someone's care.

"Thank you," I said again, deliberately.

"Don't mention it," Ace replied with a smile in his voice. "Though, if you're really grateful, maybe you should think about how to repay me."

When we reached the survivors' base, I was taken in for an infection screening. Once cleared, I was led to a temporary rest area.

"Commander, you called for me?"

I looked up to see a man standing a short distance away, carrying a medical kit. The doctor.

His gaze swept over us like an X-ray before locking onto my scraped hands.

"Looks like she's the one who needs treatment. Am I right?"

Ace nodded and turned to me. "This is Jamir, head of our medical division. If you ever have an emergency, he's the one to contact."

Jamir examined me, his eyebrows lifting higher the longer he worked. After bandaging my fingers, he turned to Ace with an unimpressed look.

"You called me in such a hurry, I thought I'd be dealing with a patient on their last breath. And yet, here we have a perfectly healthy woman—well-nourished, just a bit overtired and scraped up. This was your 'urgent case'?"

Ace avoided his gaze, muttering, "Zayla nearly fell off a cliff. That's urgent."

Jamir froze. "Wait. Zayla? Which Zayla? You mean the Zayla—the double PhD in virology and pharmacology, the one who won a national research award?"

I nodded. "That's me."

Jamir's eyes widened in shock before his expression morphed into something akin to reverence. He fished a business card from his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

"I mean it—please take care of yourself. If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I'd be honored to help."

He wanted to say more, but Ace promptly dragged him out of the room, medical supplies and all.

Clinging to the doorframe, Jamir hissed at him, "Take good care of her! You have no idea how valuable Dr. Zayla is in a world like this!"

"I know," Ace shot back, slamming the door shut. "She'd be valuable even without the apocalypse."

The bluntness of his words seemed to embarrass him. A faint flush crept up his face.

Curled up in a chair, wrapped in a warm blanket, I looked at him and said, "I don't even know how to repay you." He had done too much.

Ace shook his head and pulled out a ledger. "What you should focus on is recovering. Do you have any family? Maybe I can help find them."

I gave him my parents' names. As it turned out, they had learned about the zombie outbreak early on, gathered an enormous stockpile of supplies, and joined the base's upper ranks. They were thriving, busy consolidating their power in this new world—too busy to care about whether I was alive or dead.

As for Oliver… I had a sneaking suspicion he, too, had been reborn and remembered his past life.

Given a second chance, he was probably basking in Lina's presence, cherishing every moment with her.

We had been married for five years in our past life. He never once shared a bed with me. Never protected me from zombies. Instead, he had preemptively arranged with the base leaders to seize my supply rations for himself.

Whenever someone asked about his wife, he would sneer and say I was nothing more than a plaything for him to toy with.

In this life, Oliver would undoubtedly end up marrying Lina. Would he finally get the life he wanted?

I looked up at Ace, voice soft with a quiet plea. "I don't have anyone I can trust anymore. Can you arrange for my living quarters to be near yours?"

He didn't answer right away. I reached out, lightly tugging at the hem of his jacket, gazing up at him with a trace of vulnerability.

That was when I remembered who Ace was.

Right now, he was just the head of the rescue division. But in the future, he would lead this entire base. In my past life, he was also the one who publicly supported my divorce from Oliver.

He had already saved me twice.

Ace wasn't like Oliver. He wouldn't hurt me.

He crouched down so our eyes were level, the distance between us shrinking in an instant. I could smell the faint scent of mint on him.

"You shouldn't trust me so easily," he murmured. "I'm not a good person. My help comes with a price."

"I don't mind," I said firmly. "What do you want? I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Ace chuckled, pressing a key into my palm. "This is for the safe house next to mine. Also, your temperature's high. Are you feeling feverish?"

I touched my forehead, realizing he was right. He had noticed before I had—a realization that both touched and embarrassed me.

As Ace guided me toward my new residence, a familiar voice rang out.

"Zayla? Is that you?"

Oliver was here, arguing with the rescue team, demanding they go back for a third attempt at saving someone.

The moment he saw me, he rushed forward, reaching out with wide, desperate eyes.

"You passed the survivor test! You're not infected!"

I stepped back, glaring at him. "That's right. I didn't die in a zombie's jaws. Disappointed?"