Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 62: Delusions of the heart

The feeling crept up on me before I could name it.

Familiar. Too familiar.

I hadn’t felt it like this since Chicago— since I’d been smaller, weaker, always one step behind someone else’s shadow. The helplessness. The quiet understanding that if things went bad, survival wouldn’t be in my hands.

My stomach twisted.

I loved Lila. I really did.

But I never wanted to feel like that again.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

Still... her intentions hadn’t felt cruel. If anything, they’d been protective. That thought dulled the edge of the fear, just enough to breathe through it.

I looked down at my gun.

Hands steady now.

I dropped the magazine. One round slid free, clinking softly against the concrete. My chest tightened.

I frowned, racking the slide back.

Check.

Metal clicked. Clean. Ready.

...Hadn’t I done this already?

I swore I had.

Or maybe my mind had rewritten the moment to protect me from the truth.

The cold night air hit as I stepped outside the clothing store, sharp and unforgiving. My breath fogged faintly as I exhaled.

Hale stood near the entrance, rifle slung over his shoulder like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. His posture was rigid, eyes scanning the dark street ahead—cold, distant, winter-still.

A cigarette glowed between his lips.

He exhaled, smoke curling into the night like a warning that never reached anyone.

I stopped beside him.

He acknowledged me with a single nod.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, staring at the ember as if it had something to say. Then his eyes shifted to me.

Sharp.

Assessing.

My breath hitched before I could stop it.

"You’re staring."

I flinched, heat creeping up my neck.

"Oh—uh—sorry," I muttered, scratching the back of my head. "I was just—"

The words died.

I swallowed.

"Hale... can I ask you something?"

He studied me for a beat longer than necessary. Like he was weighing whether the answer was worth the question.

Then he nodded.

"You know if anybody messed with my gun?" I asked. "It wasn’t loaded. I almost got killed because of it."

Something flickered across his face. Just barely. A tightening of the jaw. A pause that lasted half a second too long.

"No."

The word came out flat. Final.

I frowned.

Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. The smell of smoke—marijuana this time, not just tobacco—hung in the air, heavy in my lungs.

"...Maybe I forgot," I said finally.

The words burned on the way out, like a lie I was trying to make true.

Hale shifted his weight.

"There is a possibility," he said slowly, "that it was Lila."

My eyes widened before I could stop them.

I’d thought it.

Of course I had.

But thinking it and hearing it were two very different things.

"She was close to you the whole time," he continued. Calm. Careful. "Closest one there."

I exhaled through my nose, staring out at the empty street.

"It’s... plausible," I admitted.

Then, quieter: "But I don’t think it was her."

Hale glanced at me, one eyebrow lifting.

"I know it’s slow," I said, forcing the words out. "Painfully slow. But I think she’s trying to change. Or— at least doing the best she can."

His expression darkened.

"And what would she even gain from putting me in danger like that?" I added. "If I die, she loses everything."

Hale didn’t answer right away.

He looked down, scratching at his beard. Then he crushed the cigarette beneath his boot, grinding it into the concrete until the ember died completely.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

"I saw you load your gun."

The night felt colder all at once.

With that, he turned to leave.

The door groaned as Hale shoved his way back into the store, the warmth of the fire washing over him all at once. The contrast made his skin prickle. Smoke hung low near the ceiling, mixing with the stale scent of fabric and blood that still hadn’t faded.

Aubrey noticed him immediately.

"You spoke to him???"

The words burst out of her, raw and desperate, like she’d been holding them in too long.

Hale didn’t answer.

He brushed past her shoulder without slowing, boots crunching against broken tile as he moved toward the fire everyone had gathered around. The flames crackled softly, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.

Lila looked up.

Her gaze met his.

Firelight crawled over her face, carving it into sharp planes of shadow and glow. Cold. Dark. Unreadable.

For just a moment, Hale felt his breath hitch.

Then he sat.

Terri stood a few feet away, a map unfurled across her knees. Her fingers hovered over it as she spoke, voice tight, rehearsed—like she’d already gone over this in her head a dozen times.

"Right now we’re here," she said, tapping the edge of St. Louis. "We’ll take I-45, cut through Oklahoma, and reach Texas in a few hours if nothing slows us down."

Jane watched from across the fire, her expression hard, eyes reflecting the flames without warmth. Peter sat beside her, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the floor.

He looked like he was trying to fold into himself. Like taking up less space might keep him safe.

Jane lifted a hand to run through her hair—

Peter flinched.

Just slightly.

Enough.

His jaw tightened as he noticed it, noticed how automatic it was. His eyes narrowed, tracking the movement like it had mattered far more than it should have.

Terri cleared her throat.

"Everybody got that?" she asked, nerves creeping into her voice.

Silence.

Then Cherie spoke.

"You mentioned leaving a sign for your people from camp," she said carefully. "Something to show you’re taking I-45." She tilted her head. "That seems... dangerous. Especially since someone else is already hunting us."

Terri frowned, lips parting—but no words came.

Aubrey stepped in before she could.

"That’s what we’re doing," she said firmly. "Carl and the others probably left Chicago already. We should at least give them something. Make it easier for them to find us."

Cherie frowned deeper.

Aubrey raised an eyebrow, daring her to push back.

"...Look," Cherie said slowly, "I don’t know those people like you do. But giving the Crucible another lead on where we’re headed? That doesn’t make sense. Not when we’re already running."

The fire popped.

Aubrey’s face twisted, anger blooming fast and hot in her chest—like she couldn’t believe Cherie had even said it.

"Well that’s what we’re gonna fucking do," she snapped. "Those people were with us from the start. Before any of you came along."

Her glare cut across the circle— landing on Cherie, then Isabella, then Jane... and finally Peter.

Peter shrank further under it.

Cherie stared back for a long moment.

Then she exhaled.

Slow. Tired.

"Whatever," she said, pushing herself to her feet.

The fire crackled on.

And no one felt any safer than they had before.

The tension in the room was suffocating.

Samuel shifted his weight, just slightly—enough to betray him. Enough for Vivian’s people to notice.

The Crucible.

They stood along the walls like statues, rifles slung low, eyes sharp and empty. Watching. Measuring. Waiting for him to break.

Vivian sat in Hailey’s chair.

That alone made Samuel’s stomach twist.

The oak desk. The angle of the seat. The place where Hailey used to lean back like she owned the world. Memories slammed into him all at once—orders barked, laughter sharp as glass, the illusion of safety that had never really been there.

Vivian drew in a slow breath from her cigarette.

Held it.

Then exhaled with a satisfied sigh, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.

She leaned forward and crushed the cigarette into Hailey’s oak table.

The faint hiss felt louder than it should’ve been.

"Damn," she muttered. "Can someone get me a fucking beer? Make it cold."

Someone moved immediately.

Samuel didn’t.

Silence stretched.

"In the meantime," Vivian said, settling back, crossing her legs. "This’ll be your official interview."

Her eyes locked onto him.

"I’m nice enough to let you do it alone. You speak on behalf of all your people now."

Samuel swallowed.

Vivian leaned back in the chair, boots planted, voice calm— almost bored.

"Let me make this real simple for you," she said. "If you work under me, you don’t get opinions. You don’t get hesitation. You don’t get to decide what’s right."

She raised one finger.

"When I say shoot, you shoot. Doesn’t matter who it is."

Another finger.

"When I say move, you move. Doesn’t matter where."

A third.

"When I say burn something down, you don’t ask why. You just make sure there’s nothing left standing."

Samuel’s chest tightened.

"You," Vivian continued, "and everyone you brought with you— your lovers, your friends, your fucking family— live because I allow it."

She leaned forward.

"And if one of you disobeys me?"

Her smile widened.

"I don’t punish everyone," she said softly. "I punish the one I can make an example of."

A beat.

"Can you live with that?"

Samuel nodded, breath shallow.

"Yes."

"Great, then."

A cold beer dropped into her hand— fresh from Hailey’s fridge. She didn’t thank anyone. Just took it, cracked it open, and took a long sip.

Her gaze flicked briefly to her men.

A signal.

Samuel barely had time to register the shift before hands grabbed him.

Hard.

He was forced down, arms wrenched back, chest exposed. Panic flooded him, sharp and blinding.

Vivian stood.

She accepted a knife from someone at her side.

"This," she said calmly, "is so you never forget who you belong to."

Samuel screamed as his shirt was ripped open.

"No—no, please—"

The blade pressed to his chest.

Cold.

Then it moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not deep enough to kill.

Deep enough to mark.

Samuel screamed until his throat burned, body thrashing uselessly as the Crucible held him down. The sound tore through the building, raw and animal.

Outside the room, Hailey’s former enforcer, Naomi, heard every second of it.

She stood frozen, face drained of color, hands clenched tight at her sides. Helpless. Knowing exactly what was happening— and knowing she couldn’t stop it.

When it was over, Samuel was left shaking on the floor.

Panting.

Crying.

A bloody sigil carved into his chest— angry, unmistakable.

Vivian crouched in front of him, setting the knife aside. She tilted his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to look at her.

Her eyes were bright.

Possessive.

Satisfied.

"I own you now."