Chapter 2 : Survives as a Fragile Girl

“St-Status window.”
I called out with hope, but the world threw another middle finger my way.
My voice echoed in the empty room, but no transparent hologram or mysterious voice appeared.

“Why the hell don’t I get one…!”
A frustrated mutter slipped out.
The world’s gone to sh*t, my body’s suddenly a delicate girl’s, and I don’t even get a status window?
How am I supposed to survive like this?
I grumbled inwardly, but it was just hollow complaints with no one to hear.

That left me with one option.
Gulp.
I swallowed hard and turned to the curtain-covered window.
The common thread in those online posts about awakening: they’d killed a zombie.

‘It could be a lie. But… I have to believe it.’
If the info was fake, my future was grim.
I’m a muscle-less girl now.
I don’t know how weak I’ve become, but judging by appearances, I’m probably several times frailer than before.
Without awakening some special ability, I’d have no way to protect myself in a lawless, collapsed society.

‘That’s not the only problem. I’m almost out of food.’
I’d secured water, but food was scarce.
Living alone, I never stocked up, relying mostly on delivery.
Even rationing tightly, my food would run out in three days.

‘Sure, you can survive a month on water alone, but that’s pointless. Without proper food, my strength will fade, and if I get too weak, I won’t be able to go outside.’
Starving into a twig wouldn’t help.
In a zombie apocalypse, a strong body is everything.

My options boiled down to praying for a rescue team within three days or going outside to kill a zombie and see if I could awaken.

‘But how? How’s a fragile-looking girl like me supposed to kill a zombie?’
Once again, my weak body held me back.
Could this delicate frame even take down a child, let alone a zombie?
A reasonable doubt crept in.

‘…Don’t think about that. Surviving as a powerless girl without a status window would be worse than death.’
I pushed myself forward for a reason.
I’d read dozens of apocalypse novels.
It wasn’t certain, but if awakeners existed in this world, then zombies might not just be regular ones—mutants or awakened zombies wouldn’t be surprising.
Waiting at home for rescue could lead to the worst-case scenario: being surrounded by powerful zombies.
Worse, empowered awakeners might prey on the weak, ushering in a dog-eat-dog era.
Some creep might even try to make me a s*x s*ave.

‘Not a chance in hell! I’d rather bite my tongue and die than let some bastard touch me!’
Imagining the worst sparked a surge of courage.
If I was going to die anyway, I’d move toward the option with the best shot at survival.

Resolved, I began preparing to go outside.
First, I needed clothes that fit.
What I was wearing was too loose—pants had already fallen off, leaving me in just a baggy T-shirt.
Fine for indoors, but dangerous outside.

I shuffled to the wardrobe beside my bed, my small steps already feeling oddly natural.
Opening the wardrobe, I was greeted by oversized men’s clothing—shirts, T-shirts, and jeans that now looked comically large.

“Ugh. Nothing to wear…”
I sighed, sifting through the clothes.
Clothes that fit perfectly yesterday were now useless.
Then, in a corner of the wardrobe, I spotted a small box.

I pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were clothes from my orphanage days—middle school stuff.
Since I’d shrunk, they might actually fit.
I picked out a long-sleeve shirt and pants, choosing clothes with minimal skin exposure to guard against zombie bites.

Stripping off the baggy clothes, I changed.
A glimpse of my chest made me flush, but I shoved the embarrassment aside.
No time for that, and staring at my own body felt weirdly guilty, like I was peeping.
It’s my body, but still.

The clothes fit surprisingly well.
The only hiccup was the shirt catching on my wings, so I cut small holes for them to slip through.

‘Can these wings actually fly?’
A suddenly important question.
If I could fly, I’d be safe from ground-bound zombies.
I mean, come on—a haloed angel girl should be able to fly, right?
A wingless angel is just absurd.

‘Let’s see… move like this?’
I focused on the wings on my back.
First time feeling them, but moving them was easy.
Like it was encoded in my DNA, I instinctively knew how.
The wings flapped vigorously, as if eager to lift their master.

“!”
Cutting through air resistance, my body began to float.
And then.
Flap flap.
I rose about 30 centimeters off the ground.
That was it.
I flapped with all my might, but I couldn’t go higher.
Panicked, I stopped, and my body plopped back to the floor.

Fine.
The wings are decorative.
I briefly considered cutting off the useless things with a knife but decided against it—too painful.

The rest of my prep went smoothly.
Years working construction meant I had tools and know-how to make weapons and defenses.
I grabbed a hammer from the toolbox.
Most people think of kitchen knives or spears as weapons, but that’s a bad call.
Knives are great for experts but dangerous for novices—you could hurt yourself.
They’re not designed as weapons, lacking grips to prevent slipping, and stabbing or pulling them out of a zombie is tough.
Plus, thin blades break easily.
As someone with no knife skills, it was a no-go.

A hammer, though, was different.
I’d swung one for years on job sites.
Its thick head made it stable to swing, and its durability meant I could bash thousands of times without worry.

‘The question is whether I can swing it…’
Hammers are heavy for their size, tough for weak people to wield.
It took me two years to get comfortable with one.
I tested it, swinging at the air.

Whoosh! Whoosh!
Each swing produced a threatening sound.
I frowned, puzzled.
It didn’t feel heavy.
If anything, it felt lighter than when I was in my old body.

‘No way this body’s stronger than my old one… but maybe it’s not total garbage?’
The unexpected gain lifted my spirits.
Feeling hopeful, I made some armor.
Nothing fancy—just wrapping cloth around my left arm and securing it with industrial tape.
Mobility is key against zombies, so heavy armor would be a liability.
The plan: block zombie bites with the cloth, then smash their heads with the hammer.

‘Still feels risky, but this is the best I can do.’
With more time, I could make better gear or a solid plan.
But as soon as I finished prepping, I stood.
Waiting would sap my courage.
Before I could make the worst choice—hiding indoors—I forced myself to move.

I stood at the front door.
Stepping outside would shatter my old life.
I’d face the unknown of a zombie apocalypse.

“…”
The door loomed larger today.
Or maybe it was because I’d shrunk.
No big deal.
Go out, kill a zombie, assess the situation, and come back.

Steeling myself, I gripped the doorknob tightly.
And then.
Crunch.
The knob broke off.

“…Whoa.”
Creak—
The now-knobless door swung open with a rusty groan.

What the hell?