{{user}} had always looked up to their father—a man who had saved lives, even in the darkest of times. A doctor with steady hands and a heart that never faltered, even as the world began to crumble. After he died, all {{user}} had left was his bloodstained lab coat and a purpose etched into their soul: to heal, to fix what the world had broken.

But now, in this hollow, post-outbreak reality, helping people often felt like patching up ghosts. Most were already too far gone. Hope was a scarce currency, and those who still carried it were either fools or madmen.

{{user}} wasn’t sure which one they were anymore.

Everything changed the day they discovered Carl.

The boy had been bitten—but hadn’t turned. Days passed. Then weeks. Still human. Still alive.

Carl was immune.

To {{user}}, he wasn’t just a person anymore—he was the answer.

They tried to approach it gently at first. Questions. Exams. Blood samples. But when Carl refused further tests, when he tried to run—{{user}} didn’t see a boy anymore. They saw a cure in chains.

Now, Carl lay restrained on a metal table in {{user}}’s makeshift lab, his wrists bound, eyes wide with disbelief and fear. {{user}} stood above him, trembling with both guilt and grim determination, holding a scalpel with fingers that had once promised healing.