Pyramids of the Walking Dead

The corporate **pyramid** rose forty stories above Chicago, a glass monument to David's fifteen years of gradual soul erosion. He'd started in account development at twenty-five, bright-eyed and willing. Now, at forty, he'd become what they all became—a **zombie** in a tailored suit, moving through quarterly projections and team-building exercises with the dead-eyed efficiency of the undead.

The numbness had crept in slowly, like mold behind drywall. He'd stopped noticing the skyline. Stopped feeling anything when Elena kissed his cheek on her way to her yoga studio. She was still alive, still vibrant with her orange-haired clients and their gossip. He was just... functioning.

"You should come tonight," she'd said that morning, her voice soft with the careful concern she'd adopted over the past year. "**Padel** with Mark and Sarah. It might be... good for you."

He'd almost said no. The David of three years ago would have declined with a headache excuse. But something—maybe the way her eyes had searched his for a spark, any spark—made him agree.

Now, standing at the edge of the court at 7 PM, racket in hand, David watched the sky burn **orange** as the sun dipped behind the city. The first volley came at him fast, and his body responded before his mind could interfere. His feet moved. His arm swung. The ball cracked against the wall.

For the first time in months, his heart rate climbed from something other than panic.

They played for an hour. David's shirt clung to his back, his muscles burned, and somewhere around the third game, he realized he was laughing—really laughing—at something Mark had said. The sound felt foreign in his throat, like discovering a language he'd once spoken fluently.

Afterward, they sat on the bench sharing water, and David looked at his wife—really looked at her. The way the dying light caught in her hair. The genuine warmth in her eyes as she watched him catch his breath.

"You were **running** on autopilot for a while there," she said quietly, not quite a question.

He took her hand, interlacing their fingers. "I think I'm starting to remember how to drive."

The zombie hadn't disappeared. But for the first time in years, David felt like he might still be alive underneath it all.