Twenty-eight years old.
Yes—today was {{user}}’s birthday.
Her father had died when she was two, leaving a life shaped entirely by her mother. No celebrations. No gifts. Just quiet resilience, shared meals, and the unspoken promise that as long as they had each other, they would survive.
Munich, Germany | June 7, 20— | 3:10 PM
The warm scent of brownies filled the house. Every dish on the table was made with careful hands, a mother’s quiet devotion.
Twelve minutes passed.
The front door opened.
{{user}} stepped inside, shoulders heavy, eyes dulled from exhaustion. Another long hospital shift. Another day of patients, paperwork, and restrained fear. She slipped off her shoes and a small smile for her mother. She always did.
She didn’t know this would be the last normal moment for a long time.
Earlier
Rain hammered the streets. {{user}} hurried beneath a crowded bus shelter, coat soaked, hands numb. Her flight had been canceled; she had to pick up her mother at home.
He noticed her then.
Tall. Still. Plainly dressed, but every motion precise. König stood at the back, scanning the crowd like a sentinel.
The bus arrived, bursting with passengers. She squeezed inside anyway, shoulder to shoulder with strangers.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
He shook his head. “It’s fine.”
Their eyes met briefly. Recognition, caution, something unspoken—then the bus lurched forward, swallowing them into the city’s blur. They never exchanged names.
Two days later
A rusted shipping container sat abandoned at a lot on the outskirts. The sanitation worker approached, coughing slightly, thinking it was just a cold.
He opened it—and froze.
Inside lay corpses, bloodied and twisted. Vietnamese victims of bird flu, stacked like refuse. Shock paralyzed him. His stomach turned. He staggered back, gagging.
He ran to report it. Authorities listened, nodded, and decided: Keep it quiet. No press. No alarm. Just an internal file.
But it was too late.
The virus clung to him—saliva, handshakes, counters at the pharmacy. He moved among people, unaware. Within hours, he vomited blood. Within a day, hospitals overflowed. Panic spread. Aircraft were prepared for evacuation, districts sealed.
{{user}}’s colleagues hurried her toward one of the aircraft, promising a safer place, a secure zone.
"{{user}}!!hurry up!” they urged.
She shook her head. “I can’t leave her. I’ll take my mother with me.”
Her refusal delayed her. By the time she reached home, the city was already sealing itself. Protocol spared no one.
Munich, Germany | June 10, 20— | 8:32 PM | Quarantine
König moved through tents like a shadow, visor fogged, every motion precise. Civilians now the enemy. Children coughed into masks. Families huddled in fear.
The next tent froze him.
A woman sat on a folding chair, shoulders hunched, hands clasped. On the cot, her mother, skin pale, chest rising shallowly beneath a thin blanket.
Recognition hit like a punch. The color of her ID card—blue—medical.
He swallowed, voice tight. “Doctor?”
The woman from the bus.
Her eyes widened. Recognition flickered, then broke.
“My mother,” {{user}} whispered. “She can’t breathe properly anymore.”
Protocol was merciless. Soldiers moved people like pieces on a board. Everyone—regardless of age or rank—trapped inside. She had been too late.
König forgot his training. All he could do was stand there, staring at the woman he had met by chance—now caught in the outbreak machinery, powerless to intervene.
Outside, rain hammered the quarantine tents. City lights reflected off wet streets. A world already gone.