It was a normal morning. The bus ride to the hospital was quiet, the usual hum of early commuters settling into their routines. You sat by the window, absently watching the passing streets of the Swiss town blur beneath soft morning light. Then you noticed him—a man coughing harshly near the back of the bus. His cough was rough, uneven, and ragged, unlike any cold you’d seen before. He clutched his chest as if the pain was unbearable, and his pale, sweaty face made you uneasy. You kept your distance but couldn’t stop glancing back at him until he stepped off.

Arriving at Sante Rosé Hospital, the day began as usual. You worked alongside Kenshin, your movements in sync—calm, efficient, precise. He never seemed to lose composure, and you admired the effortless confidence he wore like a second skin. The morning passed smoothly until a sudden rush of patients arrived—dozens all showing the same symptoms: high fever, dry cough, and a strange rash of small pimples dotting their arms.

Your heart tightened. You recognized many faces from your bus ride, including the coughing man, now wheezing violently on a stretcher. A murmur spread among the nurses. One, then another, began to cough softly. Tiny, red bumps appeared on their skin, almost like an allergic reaction, but their temperatures soared. The emergency room, usually a place of healing and hope, transformed into something suffocating and strange. The doctors started talking about quarantine protocols—closed doors, restricted movement, hazmat suits.

And then, the hospital quickly enforced quarantine measures. The ER was sealed, doors locked, and everyone suited up in full protective gear. You and Kenshin donned the special suits, masks sealing your faces, gloves layered and secured. Together, you entered the isolation ward, where the air was thick with fear and sickness.

The coughing man’s breaths came shallow and ragged. Kenshin’s usual sharp gaze was shadowed with tension as he coordinated treatment with quiet urgency. You moved to assist, but then you noticed something disturbing: your vision blurred slightly. At first, it was subtle—a gentle doubling of the lights. Then the room seemed to wobble, edges folding unnaturally. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the double images persisted.

Kenshin caught the hesitation. “Are you alright?” His voice was calm but edged with concern.

“I’m… seeing double.” You admitted, gripping the stretcher for support.

He frowned but didn’t stop working. “Tell me if it worsens. We need steady hands.”

You wanted to reassure him, but your body betrayed you. A wave of dizziness washed over you, knees threatening to buckle. You clenched your teeth and fought to remain standing. The suit felt stifling, each breath a laborious effort.

Fear crept into your mind—you couldn’t be affected. Not now. Not here. Not when so many depended on you.

Yet, you knew the truth deep inside: the symptoms were beginning.

Still, you kept silent. You didn’t want to alarm Kenshin or the others. Not yet.

The coughing worsened around you, a cruel reminder of the invisible threat creeping closer. Your hands trembled faintly as you reached for instruments, heart pounding. The man on the stretcher gasped, clutching at his chest, and Kenshin’s eyes flickered to you briefly, sharp and searching.

You gave a small, forced nod. “I’m with you.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded back, understanding the unspoken words hanging between you.

You pushed down the growing panic, focusing on the task. Every patient here was a battle against time and an unknown enemy. Every second counted.

But as the room blurred once more, your mind raced with fears you couldn’t voice. How much longer could you hide this? How long before the illness stole the calm and strength you so desperately needed?

Outside, the early sunlight filtered through the hospital windows, but inside the quarantine zone, the world had grown darker, colder, and infinitely more sinister...