Chapter 7: Digital Lockdown, The Fall of EVO Patient Zero
The night before the sirens, the city was restless in ways most people didn't notice.
Streetlights flickered in uneven rhythms, not from bad wiring but like they were responding to something unseen. At the corner of 9th and D••••••, the ATM screens rebooted in perfect sync, cycling through static before returning to their menus. Across town, the giant ad board above the old cinema glitched for three full seconds — its polished model's smile stretching into a pixelated snarl before snapping back.
Nobody connected the dots.
In the Gutter & Spine backroom, Jules locked the register while Aria lingered by the front window. The reflection in the glass was sharp, almost too sharp — catching details she knew weren't behind her. For a moment, she thought she saw someone else standing in her place, lips moving without sound.
She blinked, and it was gone.
Outside, the rain had stopped but the streets smelled faintly metallic, as if a storm had passed through without a drop falling. A delivery bike sped by, its rider glancing over his shoulder twice like he was being followed. Farther up the block, two men in plain black jackets posted themselves under a streetlamp, not speaking, just watching.
By midnight, a dozen small outages dotted the city grid. Home security cameras failed mid - stream. Smart door locks jammed. Some residents swore their mirrors caught strangers' faces in the background when they checked their phones.
At 3:52 a.m., Aria's phone buzzed — not a text, not a call, just a pulsing red icon Jules had set up "for emergencies." No message, no explanation. Just the signal.
She stayed up after that, sitting by the window, watching the empty street.
By the time the sirens began, the city already felt like it had crossed a line it couldn't uncross.
The first siren started at 4:17 a.m.
By the time Aria's phone lit up, the city's rhythm was already broken — train lines stalled, subway turnstiles frozen mid - beep, traffic lights stuck in unblinking red. News anchors in sleek studios filled the airwaves with words like containment, precaution, temporary measure. None of it sounded convincing.
Downstairs, the café on the corner pulled its blinds early, locking the door even though the "OPEN" sign still glowed. An old man stood outside holding a paper cup, staring at the empty street like he'd never seen it before.
Everywhere, people scrolled. Headlines refreshed faster than anyone could read. Social feeds filled with grainy phone videos — police taping off apartment buildings, white vans idling at odd hours, men in medical masks moving briskly under streetlamps.
By mid - morning, text messages stopped delivering. Calls dropped after a single ring. The city's Wi - Fi zones went dark one by one, replaced by the metallic voice of an automated notice:
Service interruption due to emergency protocols. Please remain indoors.
Aria sat with her legs drawn in beneath her, phone in hand, every app useless except one — a secure channel Jules had set up weeks ago "just in case." She didn't know what "just in case" meant, but now the encrypted icon pulsed red, urgent.
Through her apartment window, she watched the neighborhood shift from restless to empty. A police SUV rolled by slow, windows tinted black. Behind it, two small drones traced the same path, their soft hum weaving through the air like a warning.
The message came again: Don't go outside. Not yet.
Aria didn't reply. She slipped on her jacket, thumbed the lock on her front door, and stepped into a city she wasn't sure she recognized anymore.
Aria's phone buzzed again, Jules's name flashing beneath layers of encrypted messages. The city was shutting down faster than she could track. News apps updated in real time — quarantine zones, travel bans, emergency alerts — but the official statements sounded empty, rehearsed.
Outside her window, the streets darkened under curfew as drones circled overhead, their blinking sensors scanning for any breach. Her reflection stared back from the cracked mirror, fractured like the city itself. She slipped on her gloves, pulled her hood tight, and stepped into a world closing in around her — silent, watching, waiting.
The house on the street stood out like a shadow in the urban grid — sleek, black, sterile. It looked less like a home and more like a quarantine zone sealed tight with dark glass and metal, a silent warning etched into every surface.
The street was cordoned off by agents in black suits, faces hidden behind mirrored visors, their presence rigid and unyielding like statues guarding a forbidden tomb. The only light came from stark white LEDs mounted along the fence — clinical and unforgiving.
No one got close. No one got through.
Inside, behind reinforced glass, Mrs. Yune lay motionless in a transparent containment tube, filled with pale mist swirling slowly around her body. She was alive, barely, suspended in limbo between this world and whatever came next.
The tube's surface was frosted, but through it, her features were unmistakable — eyes closed, pale skin almost glowing under the sterile light. Monitors blinked quietly, their screens filled with cryptic data streams only the agents understood.
Outside, a black car idled beneath harsh streetlights. The driver — a man in a tailored black suit — adjusted the earpiece pressed tightly to his ear. His eyes scanned the horizon, alert, tense. Then he spoke softly into the mic clipped at his collar.
"It's started."
His voice was low, clipped.
"Lockdown protocol initiated. Contain and purge per directive."
Static flickered in his ear.
"Burn everything. No trace left. Quarantine seal is priority zero."
He glanced toward the house again, its blackened windows reflecting flashing red lights from nearby emergency vehicles.
"EVO patient zero terminated," he whispered.
The words carried a weight only those in the line understood.
Behind closed doors, the command center buzzed with activity. Screens mapped the city in digital grids — zones flashing red, yellow, and green like a living organism in distress. Faces moved between terminals, fingers flying over touchscreens and keyboards, relaying encrypted data and coordinates.
The message was clear: the city was locked down. No one entered, no one left.
The world outside was fast becoming a ghost town.
Social media flooded with fragmented reports — rumors of viral outbreak, quarantine measures, unexplained disappearances. Official channels stayed tight - lipped, issuing only vague statements about public safety and ongoing investigations. Every news alert carried the same undertone of fear.
Inside the house, sterile cold weighed heavy. Sensors monitored every heartbeat, every breath Mrs. Yune took. The glass tube hissed faintly as it filtered and recycled air, a fragile bubble holding life in suspended animation. Scientists and doctors, clad in hazmat suits, worked silently in shifts, faces hidden behind masks and goggles.
Their only instruction: keep her alive.
Outside, drones hovered, cameras sweeping the quarantined perimeter, eyes in the sky watching for any breach. The city's surveillance grid locked down streets, buildings, alleys — digital checkpoints rising like a fortress. Facial recognition, thermal imaging, biometric sensors — all converging in one massive data net designed to catch the smallest anomaly.
The man in the black car watched the command feed flicker on his phone screen. Each update was a countdown — a clock ticking closer to something inevitable. Whispers over comm lines grew more urgent, more coded.
"EVO patient zero terminated."
"Scrub all logs. Project EVO is dead."
No one outside the inner circle knew what EVO meant, but the term rippled through the network like a cold wave. The city was shutting down, and whatever had started was not going to stop until finished.
At a distance, the faint hum of helicopters cut the night sky. Loudspeakers crackled with automated messages — instructing residents to remain indoors, report symptoms, cooperate with health officials. Curfews were enforced with harsh penalties. Roads blocked with concrete barriers and armed patrols.
Even those who wanted to leave found no way out. Highways gridlocked with emergency vehicles, trains halted mid - journey, airports closed indefinitely. No flights. No escape.
Inside the quarantine zone, atmosphere suffocated. Each breath measured, rationed. Time lost meaning. The line between science and something darker blurred.
Mrs. Yune's pulse was steady but faint, a delicate thread tethering her to life. Her mind a locked fortress — unknown, unreachable. The tube's monitors recorded strange brain activity patterns medical teams struggled to decode.
The black - suited man exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. His message was clear and final.
"Make sure it's all scrubbed."
The order absolute. No record. No evidence. Only silence.
The city waited, breath held, shadows lengthened, the unknown spreading like a virus itself.
The black sedan slipped from the sterile quarantine zone, tires humming quietly against slick asphalt. Night cloaked the streets in darkness, broken only by flickering street lamps and distant sirens wailing like ghosts.
The man remained motionless, eyes fixed forward, calculating every curve, every potential threat. Beside him, Mrs. Yune lay still within the containment tube, mist swirling gently as monitors tracked her fragile vitals.
The car left the city edge, entering a deserted stretch cutting through dense woods and low hills. Remote, far from prying eyes and digital surveillance alike. The driver's grip tightened on the wheel, a cold edge in his stare as he checked the rearview mirror — empty. No tails. No interceptors. For now.
The low drone of the engine mingled with the whisper of wind threading through trees. The black box secured in the backseat, the last physical trace of Mrs. Yune's presence outside containment, blinked quietly, transmitting encrypted data back to command.
Suddenly, the radio crackled with static bursts and rapid unintelligible clicks. The man's jaw clenched. This wasn't in the plan.
"Report," he commanded into the mic, voice low but urgent.
A distorted voice replied, encrypted and clipped, intelligible only to those with clearance. A code phrase repeated three times: "EVO patient zero compromised."
The driver's breath caught. This was the signal. Something was wrong.
Before he could react, a sharp vibration surged through the car — a pulse, a shockwave felt more than heard. The air thickened, temperature dropping sharply. He glanced at the containment tube — mist inside swirled wildly now, patterns distorted as if reacting to some unseen force.
And then —
The explosion ripped through the cabin.
Metal screamed, glass shattered into a thousand lethal fragments. The containment tube cracked violently, releasing vapor that hissed and pulsed like a living thing. The car flipped, skidding across asphalt in a trail of fire and smoke. Flames licked the night sky, painting it red and orange as wreckage smoldered.
No one came to help.
Inside twisted metal, no movement. No life signs.
The last signal from the black box abruptly ceased; the line went silent.
Back in the city, the command center flickered with alarms. Red lights pulsed frantically as emergency protocols triggered. Screens flashed error messages; encrypted data streams corrupted or erased. The message repeated: "EVO patient zero compromised. Protocol breach. Project terminated."
Voices barked orders through secured comms, but panic was palpable beneath the rigid professionalism.
Outside, quarantine barriers buzzed with tension. Drones redoubled patrols, scanning every inch of the perimeter. The already ghostly empty streets felt colder, emptier — like the city recoiled at what happened.
Behind reinforced glass, scientists stared in disbelief at blank monitors where Mrs. Yune's vitals should have been.
"We lost her," one whispered.
A lead officer slammed a fist against the console.
"Containment failed. This is an emergency."
The room locked down instantly. Biohazard protocols escalated. Communications sealed. No outside contact.
Meanwhile, far beyond city limits, in a dim warehouse, another black car slid into shadows. Inside, a woman in a sharp blazer and steely eyes watched the news feed on a tablet. Her face unreadable as she heard the report: "EVO patient zero terminated."
She swiped the screen, replaying images of the explosion. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"This changes everything," she said, cold but fierce.
Her phone buzzed with a new encrypted message: "Contain loose ends. Project EVO is dead, but the virus lives."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"No loose ends. No survivors."
She tapped a button, sending orders to operatives scattered across the city.
Back inside, the digital grid pulsed with shifting data. Systems flagged anomalies everywhere — breaches in quarantine zones, security lapses, unexplained power failures. The city's electronic heartbeat faltered.
A young hacker named Kai sat alone in his cramped apartment, screens illuminating his face with bluish glow. He'd watched the shutdown unfold, tracking data packets and dark web traffic, piecing fragments of what was really happening.
His fingers flew over keyboard, bypassing firewalls and protocols with practiced ease. But tonight was different. Systems more encrypted than anything he'd seen. Something bigger was happening; the blackout wasn't accidental.
Suddenly, an incoming encrypted file popped on his screen — no sender, no trace. A single video clip, grainy but unmistakable: the car explosion, caught by shaky drone cam.
Kai's heart raced. Whoever sent this wanted it known.
He leaned closer, rewinding footage. In flames, a faint silhouette moved — quick, unnatural, almost something not quite human.
His screen blinked — an alert flashing a chilling warning:
"Do not share. Do not trust."
Kai swallowed hard but couldn't look away.
Elsewhere, a hospital emergency room flooded with patients showing strange symptoms — high fever, erratic pulses, neurological spasms. Doctors struggled to identify the cause. Lab tests inconclusive. Each victim showed no obvious link, but arrivals synced with city lockdown and the explosion.
Nurses whispered rumors about contagion of unknown origin, a virus not listed on any database.
An older doctor, Dr. Miro, observed chaos with grim understanding. She'd seen similar outbreaks — deep cover experiments gone wrong, infections masked by silence and lies.
She tapped her phone, sending a message to an old contact:
"The city's burning. EVO wasn't just a project. It was a trigger. We're running out of time."
The city's network lit up with blackouts, communication holes slicing through the grid. Panic spread among few still online. Emergency broadcasts flickered, overridden by cryptic warnings: "EVO patient zero terminated. System collapse imminent."
At a hidden safe house on the city outskirts, a small group of rebels gathered around a flickering holo - map. Aria's name wasn't spoken, but her image flashed briefly — a ghost in the system, a spark of hope amid chaos.
"We can't wait for them," one said. "If the city falls, no one survives."
Another nodded, eyes steely.
"We find out what EVO really was. We stop it."
Back at the car ruins, forensic teams in hazmat suits combed wreckage. Every piece bagged, every scrap analyzed under ultraviolet light. Containment tube fragments carefully collected, sent for immediate study under highest security clearance.
One thing stood out — odd residue coating debris, glowing faintly under blacklight, impossible to identify.
A lead investigator frowned.
"This isn't natural."
Night deepened, folding city in shadows thicker than ever. Somewhere in tangled maze of streets and secrets, the truth waited — buried beneath layers of silence and fire.
And somewhere, Mrs. Yune's fate was no longer contained in glass.
It was unleashed.