Hiro’s Ramen Palace prided itself on noodles with exactly forty-five seconds of perfect chew. Hiro knew this because he was staring at the timer when the first zombie pressed its face against the window, leaving a greasy forehead print shaped like regret. By the time the zombies arrived, the ramen was already overcooked.

“Closed,” Hiro muttered, even though the sign still said OPEN and the zombie could not read. It groaned anyway, which Hiro took personally.

Within minutes, three more zombies shuffled in, attracted not by brains but by the steam rolling out of the shop. One of them pointed at the menu with a missing finger and made a hopeful sound. Hiro sighed. He had survived rent increases, food critics, and a disastrous soft-boiled egg incident. He was not going to lose his shop to undead freeloaders.

“Sit,” he said, out of habit. "It will be ready in five."

They sat.

The bell over the door jingled as more zombies arrived, forming a polite, wobbling line. A jogger being chased outside slowed down, confused, then joined the queue.

Hiro wiped his hands on his apron. If the apocalypse wanted ramen, fine. He’d serve it. But he was charging extra for substitutions—and absolutely no rotting flesh falling off in the dining area.