ZARIAH POV
"Patient 47 shows complete recovery after treatment—"
The microphone screeched feedback, cutting off my presentation. I flinched at the sound, my hands trembling as I clicked to the next slide.
Fifty reporters stared at me from their seats. Cameras pointed like weapons. Behind me on the stage, our CEO smiled his shark smile while Thorne stood beside him, looking important.
Looking anywhere but at me.
"Dr. Lovelace, can you confirm the treatment works on all strains?" A reporter called out.
My mouth went dry. "We've seen success with the original strain, but the mutated version—"
"All strains," the CEO interrupted smoothly, stepping to my microphone. "Genesis BioTech is proud to announce a complete cure for Crimson Fever."
Lie. That was a lie.
But I couldn't say that. Not here. Not with everyone watching.
"Let's bring out Patient 47!" The CEO gestured to the side door. "Living proof of our miracle treatment!"
The door opened. A man shuffled onto the stage—the same patient whose test results had made me celebrate three months ago. But something was wrong. His skin looked gray under the bright lights. He moved stiffly, like his joints didn't bend right.
"Patient 47, how do you feel?" The CEO thrust a microphone at him.
The man's head tilted at a weird angle. His eyes... his eyes looked cloudy. Unfocused.
"Sir?" I took a step toward him. "Are you okay?"
He made a sound. Not words. A wet, gurgling moan that raised every hair on my neck.
Then he started shaking.
"Get him off stage!" I shouted, but it was too late.
Patient 47's body convulsed violently. His skin rippled like something moved underneath. The gray spread across his face, his neck, his hands. His eyes turned completely white—like someone had painted over them.
A reporter in the front row stood up. "What's happening to him?"
Patient 47's head snapped toward her. Fast. Too fast.
Then he lunged.
The woman's scream cut off as he crashed into her, his teeth sinking into her throat. Blood sprayed across the white tile floor. Cameras flashed. People started screaming.
"Security!" The CEO stumbled backward. "Get security!"
But it was already spreading.
The reporter Patient 47 bit started convulsing. Her skin turned gray. Her eyes went white. She stood up—jerky, wrong—and grabbed the man next to her.
More screaming. More blood.
"Zariah, we need to go!" Dr. Chen grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the exit.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. This was my cure. My research. And it had failed.
No. Worse than failed.
It had created monsters.
"MOVE!" Dr. Chen shoved me hard. We ran.
Behind us, the conference room descended into chaos. People trampling each other. More bodies convulsing. More of those things spreading like a disease come to life.
We burst into the hallway. Emergency alarms blared. Red lights flashed.
A security guard ran past us, his radio crackling: "Multiple attacks on floors three through seven! This is not a drill! EVAC—"
Something grabbed him from behind. Pulled him screaming into a side room.
"The stairs!" Dr. Chen pulled me forward. "We have to get to—"
A door burst open. Three researchers stumbled out, covered in blood. Behind them, more of those things. Gray skin. White eyes. Moving with terrible, hungry purpose.
Dr. Chen pushed me the opposite direction. "Find your fiancé! Get out! GO!"
She turned to face the monsters.
I ran.
My feet pounded against tile slick with blood. My lab coat caught on a door handle. I ripped it off, kept running. Past broken glass. Past bodies—some still, some twitching, some standing with those horrible white eyes.
"Thorne!" I screamed his name. "THORNE!"
He was executive level. Top floor. If I could just get to him—
An infected researcher lurched from a side office. His jaw hung wrong, broken. He reached for me.
I ducked, slipped in blood, crashed into the wall. Kept running.
The executive elevator. I could see it ahead. The doors were closing.
"WAIT!" I sprinted forward, throwing myself through the gap.
The doors shut behind me with a soft ding.
I collapsed against the wall, gasping. Safe. I was safe.
The elevator rose smoothly while hell erupted below.
Top floor. Executive suites. I stumbled out into the quiet hallway.
Too quiet.
"Thorne?" My voice cracked. "Where are you?"
A door at the end of the hall—his office. Light showed underneath.
I ran toward it. Grabbed the handle.
Locked.
"THORNE! It's me! Open up!"
Footsteps inside. The lock clicked.
Thank God. Thank—
The door opened a crack. Thorne's face appeared, his eyes wide with fear.
"Zariah." He breathed my name.
"Let me in! Those things are everywhere—"
"I can't." His voice was strange. Flat.
"What?"
He pulled the door wider. Just enough for me to see inside.
Seraphine stood behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Her face buried in his back.
"I can't risk her," Thorne said quietly. "I'm sorry."
I didn't understand. "Thorne, what are you—"
He shoved me.
Hard.
I stumbled backward, my arms windmilling for balance. The hallway tilted.
Behind me, the emergency stairwell door burst open.
Wet, gurgling moans filled the air.
I turned. Five of those things. Gray skin. White eyes.
Reaching for me.
"THORNE!" I screamed.
His door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
Through the small window, I saw him lift Seraphine in his arms. Saw them run toward the executive elevator on the other side of his office.
Saw them leave me to die.
The monsters grabbed my shoulders.
And the last thing I thought before teeth sank into my arm was: He chose her.