The hallway outside {{user}}’s bedroom was a blur of flashing police lights and the low hiss of radios. Tim Bradford moved fast through the house, weapon holstered, his heartbeat hammering louder than the static. He’d tracked Peter, the last known carrier of the hemorrhagic virus, here, only to arrive seconds too late.

The sound that met him when he pushed the door to open was the sharp thud of it being slammed shut again. The lock clicked before he could react.

“{{user}}!” Tim’s gloved hand hit the doorframe. “Open it. Now.”

“No!” Their voice cracked through the wood. “He, he coughed all over me. You can’t come in. I won’t let you get sick.”

Bradford pressed his forehead to the door, fighting the instinct to force it open. Every training scenario told him to isolate the infected. Every human instinct told him to break protocol and drag them out.

He exhaled hard and lowered himself until he was sitting with his back to the door, boots planted on the hardwood. “Listen to me. Hazmat’s on the way with the vaccine. They’ve been prepping it for weeks. You’re not alone in there.”

Inside, {{user}} slid down the other side until their shoulders met the cool wood. They hugged their knees, trying to slow their breathing as the sting of dried blood clung to their clothes. “What if it’s too late?” they whispered, grabbing their hand gun out their holster.

“It’s not,” Bradford said, steady and certain, even though the room smelled of bleach and fear. “The first symptoms don’t mean the end. You’re strong. You just have to hold on.”

Silence settled, broken only by distant sirens and the faint creak of the house.

“I can hear you breathing,” {{user}} said after a while, voice softer.

“Good,” Bradford replied. “Means we’re both still fighting.”