Dr. Delacroix was waiting the moment Kyle stepped through the reinforced doors into the central operations hub. She didn't greet him. Her arms were folded with surgeon-like precision, lab coat perfectly pressed, her face locked into that expression she always wore when something was about to be cut out—of protocol or a person.
"You're late," she snapped, voice clipped, calculated. "Three hours past deadline."
Kyle made no attempt to pretend surprise. "I had to bring her back safely. We couldn't afford exposure in the public."
"You took a bigger risk by delaying." Delacroix's eyes narrowed. "This isn't influenza. This virus doesn't respect periods of latency. It adapts to stress. She's a variable we can't account for—and you gave her time to become unpredictable."
"She's stable," Kyle said. "Cognitively intact. She remembers everything—who she is, what's happening."
Delacroix stepped forward, heels clicking on the antiseptic concrete. "Is she symptomatic?"
Kyle hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough.
"No. Not currently."
Her eyes narrowed, icy with suspicion. "Then answer me this: why would she have broken containment in the first place? And why wasn't her recovery reported the moment you had her?"
"I was trying to deescalate. She isn't like the others, and treating her like a feral dog only makes it worse—"
"Like what, exactly?" Delacroix's voice was a dagger of cold fury. "Like a human? Because that is no longer what she is. She's infected. Just because she speaks does not mean she is safe."
Kyle's lips tightened. "She's resistant. Not symptomatic. Her vitals are stable. Yes, there's psychological strain—but what do you expect? We drugged her, locked her up, then panicked when she broke out."
"She's a walking risk," Delacroix sneered. "And if we're wrong about her, even by a degree, we're inviting a mutation that will destroy containment protocols. And for what? Your moral comfort?"
Kyle didn't speak. He just stared, jaw locked.
Delacroix spun on her heel. "You have twelve hours to submit a complete incident report. The Director is insisting on details of neurological behavior and viral load development. If there's any indication of decline—mental, physical, molecular—we quarantine her again. For good."
She did not wait for a reply before stalking off, lab coat billowing behind her like a flag of office and contempt.
Kyle watched her go, the weight of a decision he had not yet made pressing on his chest. Twelve hours. That was the schedule now. Not a clock. A fuse.
Within Bio-Containment Room 3, air wheezed through filtered vents, sterile and stale. More observation cell than hospital room—white walls, glass-reinforced door, single bed, single sink, single camera winking red in the corner.
Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bed, tracing designs in the thin blanket with the end of her finger. Her face was pale, but calm. There was no tension in her shoulders, no visible upset.
Kyle watched her for a moment through the small window before entering. When he entered, he spoke levelly.
"How do you feel?"
Sam looked up and smiled faintly. "Better," she said. "Tired, mostly. But. better."
Kyle leaned in a little closer, noting the dilation of her pupils, the fine tremble in her fingers. She was compensating. Keeping herself together.
"You don't remember what happened, do you?" he asked softly.
She paused. Then frowned. "No. Just… flashes. I remember walking. Seeing the old road. Then I woke up here." She looked up at him, searching his face. "Why? Did I… hurt someone?"
Kyle felt a knot twist in his stomach. "No," he said. "Not exactly."
Her eyes stayed on his. "That's not a 'no.'"
He sighed, crouching slightly to meet her at eye level. "Your memory might come back in pieces. But right now, what matters is that you're stable."
Sam gradually leaned back against the wall, exhaling through her nose. "It's weird. I feel like something happened. Not a dream. Like. muscle memory. Like I did something too fast. Like I wanted something I shouldn't."
Kyle had no response.
She looked up towards the ceiling, blinking slowly in the unforgiving glare of the fluorescents. "I hate it here."
"I know."
"Feels like I'm waiting to get sick."
"You're not," Kyle said with certainty. "Your scans are clean. No fever. No retinal hemorrhaging. No myoclonus. Not even stress cortisol elevation. You're holding the virus off."
She closed her eyes. "So I'm a freak."
"You're proof there's hope."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy.
"I won't be in here forever, will I?" she whispered.
Kyle forced himself to nod. "Just a little while longer. I promise."
He stepped out, and the lock closed behind him with a finality that pained.
He stood outside, rubbing his temples against the wall.
Sam lay prostrate on the bed inside, humming a lullaby to herself. Her fingers twitched almost imperceptibly. But she did not see.
And the clock went on ticking.