The apartment wasn't messy. It was accumulating.
Three weeks of takeout containers formed sedimentary layers on the kitchen counter, their grease stains mapping Yating's mother's work shifts.
The hallway had narrowed to a single file passage between towers of yellowed newspapers and plastic bags bulging with discount fabric. Her mother's "good deals" that never got used.
Yating knew each precarious pile by heart. The one by the bathroom door would topple if you breathed too hard. The leaning tower of old electronics by the balcony hadn't worked since middle school.
Her father hadn't left the couch in seventeen days.
The once-beige cushions had molded to his shape, the fabric stained the color of weak tea.
His breathing was the apartment's metronome. Wheeze. Pause. Rattle.
The television flickered across his face, painting him blue then gray.
"—cases continue to rise in the eastern districts. Authorities urge caution, though officials maintain that the situation is under control. Hospitals report increased wait times—"
Yating's biology textbook lay open to Chapter 14: Pathogenic Fungi. She'd chiseled out this territory years ago. A square foot of laminate between a broken rice cooker and a shoebox labeled "Y's Medical: 2014".
The diagrams of hyphae structures blurred before her eyes. She used to sketch them for fun, back when microorganisms were fascinating instead of terrifying.
Back when her mother and father still worked together at the lab, with a high enough salary to spoil her rotten.
Her phone buzzed against a water ring.
[Dead Group Chat Rising]
Wang: if i dont do the lab report will teacher lin finally put me out of my misery
Zhao: no but i might
Ju: i dont think anybody did the lab lol
Mei: yating ghosting us again or just being her usual mysterious self?
Yating pressed her thumb into the water stain. The mark had been there so long the laminate had warped around it.
"Yating."
Her mother stood in the doorway, one shoulder brushing a stack of old medical journals that smelled faintly of mildew.
Lihua's nurse scrubs were still crisp despite her late shift. Only the redness around her eyes betrayed the truth; she'd been crying again.
"I saw the email," Yating said, not looking up.
"Did you?" Her mother's voice was hoarse from her exhaustion. She picked her way through the clutter, her slippers crumpling the receipts stuck to the floor. "Because your teacher seems to think you've given up."
The apartment creaked around them. Somewhere in the bedroom, a stack of something shifted. Probably the collection of empty shoeboxes her mother insisted they "might need someday."
"I'm tired," Yating said, which was true but not the whole truth.
The whole truth would require explaining how the Canary Fungus updates made her worried, how the piles of junk seemed to grow taller every night, how she was feeling insecure about everything, how sometimes she woke up hearing sounds she can't remember.
"We're all tired." Lihua's fingers found the back of a chair. The one buried under clean but unfolded laundry. "You think I want to—"
The television cut in: "—unconfirmed assaults at Rui Jin Hospital, where patients reportedly—"
Lihua's jaw worked. Yating knew this script. The way her mother's eyes would dart to her father's still form, the way she'd swallow whatever she really meant to say.
Last month, when the news reported the first Canary Fungus death in their district, Yating had found her mother sitting in the dark at 5 AM, still in her scrubs, staring at her reflection in the microwave door.
"You're being lazy. Do better." Lihua finally said.
The chair screeched as Yating stood. "I'm going."
"You need to eat."
"I'll get something at school."
The door stuck on its frame. Too much humidity, too many layers of paint. Yating had to shoulder it open, stepping over the threshold where carpet gave way to concrete.
[New Message: Mei]
Mei: u coming?
Yating inhaled the city's sour breath. Downstairs, Old Man Li was yelling at his radio again about "government lies." Somewhere a scooter backfired. Normal sounds. Human sounds.
[Sent]
Yating: omw. save me the seat by the window
The school's gates were chipped where kids kicked them. Inside, she could pretend.
Pretend she wasn't the girl who knew exactly how many steps it took to navigate her home in the dark. Seventeen to the bathroom, thirty two to the front door if you hugged the left wall.
Who could hear the difference between her mother's exhausted sighs and her weeping. The sighs were longer, the weeping was always between 5:17 and 5:43 AM.
Who sometimes stood outside her parents' cracked bedroom door, listening to the quiet wreckage of their marriage. Her father's wheezing, her mother's whispered "I can't do this anymore."
But first. Biology. And maybe, if she was lucky, a day where nothing worse happened than another late assignment.
••
Class 3-B smelled like lemon antiseptic wipes. The school had installed hand sanitizer stations every ten feet after the first Canary Fungus case was reported at a nearby elementary school. No one used them except Teacher Lin, who smelled like alcohol gel these days.
"Finally!" Mei whispered as Yating slid into the saved seat. "I was about to send a search party." Mei's smile was its usual sunburst, but her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on her notebook.
Left thumb, right index, left pinky. A tell Yating had noticed months ago.
"Missed my alarm," Yating lied. She unzipped her bag with deliberate slowness, arranging her pencils just so. The ritual calmed her.
Across the aisle, Zhao held up his biology textbook like a shield. "Anyone actually do the lab or are we all going down together?"
"Going down," chorused three voices.
Teacher Lin cleared his throat. "Before we begin, the office has asked me to remind you about the new health protocols—"
A collective groan cut him off.
"—any student showing symptoms must report to the nurse immediately. No exceptions." His eyes lingered on the back row where Liu had been coughing all week. "Now, open to page 147."
As diagrams filled the board, Mei leaned in. "Did you hear about Rui Jin Hospital?"
Yating's pencil stilled. "The news mentioned something."
"My cousin's a resident there." Mei's voice dropped to a whisper. "She says three patients attacked staff last night. Not like, confused old people attacking—like full on rabid. They had to sedate them with enough horse tranquilizer to—"
"Miss Chen! Miss Xiao!" Teacher Lin's ruler smacked the desk. "Unless you'd like to share with the class?"
Yating stared straight ahead, but her pulse thrummed in her throat. The news had said "unconfirmed assaults." Not rabid. Not tranquilizers.
••
Lunchtime found their usual group clustered at the far end of the cafeteria, away from the teachers' prying ears. The room buzzed with overlapping conversations, but Yating caught the same phrases looping like a broken record: Canary Fungus, hospital, attacks.
"—my mom stocked up on rice again," Zhao was saying through a mouthful of noodles. "Like we're gonna get locked down any second."
Ju sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "The wholesale market near my place got cleared out yesterday. Everything's literally gone."
Mei stabbed at her tofu. "My aunt says they're not testing people anymore unless they're literally dying. Says the numbers are way higher than—"
A crash cut her off. At the next table, Liu had knocked over his tray. He stood swaying, face pale and sweating hard. Yating wasn't sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her, but he looked shiny.
"You good, man?" Wang half-rose.
Liu blinked slowly, like his eyelids were too heavy. "Haha, I'm, I'm fine," His words slurred. "Just, just dizzy..."
Then his knees buckled.
Chaos erupted. Someone screamed. A teacher shouted for the nurse. Through it all, Yating stayed frozen, watching the way Liu's fingers twitched against the vinyl tiles: three taps, pause, repeat.
••
By afternoon dismissal, the rumor mill had churned out a dozen theories: Liu had food poisoning, Liu had the flu, Liu had attacked the nurse who tried to take his temperature.
The administration sent out a bland email about "health precautions" while avoiding the words "Canary Fungus" entirely.
Mei chewed her lip raw as they packed up. "You think he... you know..."
Yating zipped her bag with deliberate care. "Probably just a cold." The lie tasted like copper. She'd seen the way Liu moved. Not sick, but weird. Like his body wasn't his own anymore.
The walk home was quieter than usual. Fewer scooters, fewer pedestrians. More ambulances.
Yating's phone buzzed. A news alert: "Canary Fungus Task Force Announces New Quarantine Measures." She swiped it away.
Her apartment building loomed, its windows dark except for one. The flickering blue of their television, still tuned to the news.
Somewhere inside, her mother would be starting dinner. Or more likely, ordering it. Her father would be exactly where she left him. The piles would have grown no taller, the receipts no more numerous.
The hallway smelled of old takeout and something faintly sour, something she had long gotten used to. Yating stepped over a plastic bag of discount socks her mother had bought last winter and forgotten. The television droned on, its glow flickering against the walls.
"—officials maintain there is no need for alarm. While Canary Fungus cases continue to rise, health experts reiterate that the situation is being closely monitored—"
Her father hadn't moved. His outline on the couch was as familiar as the furniture itself.
"I'm home."
No answer. Just the steady, wheezing rhythm of his breathing.
In the kitchen, her mother scrolled through her phone, expression drawn tight. "Dinner's on the counter," she murmured without looking up.
A Styrofoam container sat next to an open bottle of soy sauce, the edges already curling where the heat had escaped.
Yating sat at the table, textbook open, pen tapping against the laminate. Again, the words seemed to blur together. She wasn't really reading.
Her mind kept circling back to Liu's unsteady stance, the way his fingers tapped against the floor, the shine of—
She exhaled, steadying her grip on the pen.
[Dead Group Chat Rising]
Mei: ok but real talk, if the world ended, who dies first
Wang: not me. survival of the dumbest
Ju: pretty sure that's not how it works
Zhao: yating goes first bc she's too mysterious. main character energy, she gets killed for plot
Mei: nah she's too fast. all those track medals? she'd be the one who outruns us
Wang: but no upper body strength. she can't even open a pickle jar. first time she has to climb something, she's dead
Ju: tragic. a real arc
Yating pressed her thumb into the soft edge of the page, feeling the slight give of the paper.
[Sent]
Yating: pretty sure i'd last longer than wang
Wang: EXCUSE ME???
Mei: lmaoooo she finally speaks
She could almost hear their laughter, filling in the spaces between the words. She couldn't help but smirk as a chuckle escaped her lips.
••
The next morning, the school halls hummed with whispers. Liu, the guy who had collapsed in the cafeteria yesterday, hadn't shown up. His friends hadn't heard from him, and the school wasn't giving answers.
The nurse's office was closed, the door taped over with a printed sign about "deep cleaning." A teacher had been spotted near the back entrance, talking to men in protective gear.
"Okay, but what if we really had to survive?" Mei asked as she fell into step beside Yating on the stairwell. She adjusted the strap of her bag. "Who's making it?"
Zhao leaned against the railing. "Not Wang."
"Screw you," Wang shot back, appearing behind them. "I have a black belt."
"And I have two working brain cells," Zhao said dryly. "We all have our strengths."
"Mei's dead second," Wang continued, unfazed. "Too nice. You'd try to help someone and get bitten."
Mei sighed. "Fine. Then who wins?"
Ju responded confidently. "Yating."
They all turned.
Yating blinked. "Why?"
"You think before you act," he said simply. "You don't panic. And you...kinda blend in."
Mei gasped. "Was that shade?"
Zhao snorted. "No, he's right. You're weirdly good at not standing out. You'd slip under the radar."
Yating blinked at Ju's assessment, the hallway chatter fading for a moment. She could feel the others watching her, waiting for her reaction. Mei's fingers twitched like she was ready to jump in and defend her, but Yating just tilted her head, considering.
"Blend in?" she repeated, then let a slow smirk curl at the edge of her mouth. "So what you're saying is, when the world ends, I'll be the one stealing all the snacks while the rest of you get eaten?"
Wang barked a laugh. "Damn, she's got a point."
Mei nudged Yating's shoulder. "See? This is why you'd survive. You're sneaky."
"I prefer the term strategic," Yating corrected, but the joke settled something in her chest.
The moment shattered when the PA system crackled to life overhead.
"Attention all students." The vice principal's voice was too steady, the kind of calm that came from pressure. "Report immediately to your homerooms for an important announcement."
No one moved at first. Then, like a dam breaking, the hallway erupted into noise.
"They never call us back for announcements," Zhao muttered.
Mei's hand found Yating's sleeve, fingers gripping tight. "What's going on?"
Yating didn't answer. She was too busy watching Teacher Lin hurry past, his face pale, his sleeves rolled up to reveal red marks on his wrists, like he'd been scrubbing his skin raw.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as they filed into Classroom 3-B. Teacher Lin stood rigid at the front, his normally stern face ashen. The television screen showed a government seal Yating recognized from emergency broadcasts.
"—confirmed cases of Canary Fungus have reached critical levels in District 4," a tense voice announced. "All schools will close effective immediately. Students are to return directly to their residences—"
The rest was drowned out by a wave of nervous chatter. Mei grabbed Yating's wrist, her nails digging in just shy of painful. "They're not saying it, but this is quarantine, isn't it?"
Yating watched Teacher Lin's hands tremble as he passed out printed dismissal forms. His left sleeve had a shimmery stain near the cuff that hadn't been there earlier. "Probably," she murmured.
The walk home felt surreal. Streets normally choked with afternoon traffic stood nearly empty.
A lone police cruiser idled at the intersection, its loudspeaker repeating: "Curfew begins at 6 PM. All residents must remain indoors."
Even Mei, usually a torrent of words, walked in silence, her backpack straps clenched in both hands.
"You think they'll really lock everything down?" she finally asked, voice small.
Yating watched a pair of city workers bolt a new sign to a lamppost: CURFEW 6PM-6AM. NO PUBLIC GATHERINGS.
"Yeah," she said. "I think so."
They parted ways at the intersection, Mei heading toward her apartment complex, Yating toward hers. The usual ache of loneliness didn't come. Instead, her chest felt too full, like she'd swallowed something heavy.
The elevator was broken—convenient timing—so she took the stairs. On the fourth-floor landing, she froze.
A red sticker.
Freshly pasted on Old Mrs. Wen's door across the hall, the characters for QUARANTINE stark against the bright paper.
Yating's breath hitched. She'd seen the notices on the news, slapped on buildings in other districts. But this was her hallway. Her neighbor.
She fumbled with her keys, suddenly desperate to be inside.
Her mother was home early for once, stirring a pot of congee at the stove. The television was off, the silence louder than any news report.
"School's closed," Yating announced, dropping her bag by the door.
Lihua didn't turn. "I know."
The way she said it made Yating pause.
"Did something happen at the hospital?"
The spoon stilled for half a second before resuming its circular path. "New protocols. I've been reassigned."
"To where?"
This time, her mother turned. Her scrubs were pristine, her hair neatly pinned back, but her eyes—
"Isolation ward," Lihua said.
The words landed like a punch. Isolation ward meant Canary Fungus patients. It meant suits and sealed rooms and risk.
Yating's throat tightened. "For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
Yating wanted to argue, to scream, to demand why her mother would walk into the mouth of this thing. But the exhaustion in her mother's slumped shoulders stopped her.
They ate in silence.
Her father coughed between bites, the sound wet and rattling. Yating counted the seconds between each breath, her chopsticks pushing rice grains in slow circles.
That night, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed with an alert:
EMERGENCY NOTICE: DISTRICT 4 LOCKDOWN
Shelter in place until further notice.
Unauthorized movement prohibited.
Report symptoms immediately to hotline: 104
The timestamp read 12:17 AM. Outside, something heavy scraped against the pavement. Maybe a garbage truck, maybe something else.
Yating rolled over, pressing her face into her pillow. Tomorrow, she'd check her emergency bag. Tomorrow, she'd text Mei and the others to see if they were okay. Tomorrow.
But for now, she listened to the sound of her father's labored breathing down the hall and tried not to think about red stickers or isolation wards or the way Liu's eyes had looked right before he fell.