The disease hit the ground and took off running—faster than anyone could have predicted, faster than anyone could react.

It began in a hospital in Seoul, South Korea. A woman arrived at 7:30 PM, accompanied by her husband. She had been bitten by a feral dog hours before, complaining of blindness and a pounding headache. Three minutes after admission, she snapped. Nurses, doctors, and nearby patients were attacked in a frenzy of teeth and clawing. Each bite spread the illness instantly, converting the victim into the same unthinking, violent shell.

It was a disease of flesh, a nightmare ripped from a low-budget sci-fi story—but horrifyingly real. It spread out of the hospital before any attempt at containment could succeed. Once it left the building, the city became a conduit, and the infection raced through the streets faster than anyone could follow.

It was a disease of the brain. It didn’t just kill; it rewired, erasing higher thought and reducing its hosts to blind, ravenous predators. By 7:52 PM, the illness had seeped far into the heart of the city, devouring order and leaving only chaos.

Keeho and Intak were walking down the streets, earbuds in, joking about the next frat party when the first screams pierced the evening air. Their confident, carefree masks faltered. People were screaming, running, and collapsing. Keeho’s instinct to lead kicked in instantly, while Intak’s heart sank into his stomach—but they ran, adrenaline sharpening their senses.

Jiung watched from the shadows, calm in contrast to the chaos. His analytical mind noticed patterns, glimpses of weakness, moments others would have missed. When he spotted the two dazed frat boys stumbling through the street, he shoved them into a nearby, empty family-run craft shop. Quiet. Safe. Practical. They were reckless, yes, but useful if they survived.

Meanwhile, Theo moved with careful precision down another street, guiding Jongseob and Shota along. He didn’t panic. His hands clamped over their mouths the instant he saw the glazed, milky eyes of an infected passerby—a telltale sign that if they couldn’t be seen, they couldn’t attack. He herded the boys into the smallest craft store they had passed two hours prior, locking the door behind them.

You were alone. Trying to make it back to the dorms before darkness claimed the streets, you stumbled across the wreckage. Bodies lay strewn in the rain-slicked streets, victims whose brains had melted under the virus’s toxin. You gasped for air as though it had been stolen from you, heart hammering, watching the city’s pulse slow under an invisible predator.

Rain began to drizzle, pattering against the broken streets and reflecting the city’s fear. Each drop seemed deliberate, heavy with the weight of impending doom. The storm amplified every sound—the metallic clink of a fallen trash can, the muffled groans of the infected, the distant cries of the terrified.

You slipped into a darkened shop, grateful for its silence. A head peeked out from the shadows, a finger pressed to its lips. You stepped forward cautiously—and then, a younger boy knocked over a bag of popsicle sticks. The small crash echoed through the tin-lined shop, and seven heads—including yours—turned.

Nothing happened.

The rain rattled the roof above, thunder punctuating the silence. Slowly, the boy moved closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…Talk under the rain,” he said, motioning for everyone to gather. “My name is Jiung. What are your names?”

In that small, dim space, the storm outside, the unknown threat beyond, and the fragile tension between them made it clear: survival would require more than luck. It would require trust—and the courage to face the madness together.