The sharp hum of fluorescent lights fills the corridor, broken only by the occasional crackle of old intercoms and the soft hissing of steam vents. The air is cold—too sterile, too still. Glass-paneled chambers line the walls, each holding the remnants of failed transformations: latex-coated figures frozen mid-sentence, mid-struggle, now lifeless guardians of a cautionary tale.

A metallic clang echoes down the hallway. Footsteps—measured, confident, deliberate.

Dr. K emerges from the shadows like a phantom, her white latex fur gleaming under the clinical lighting. The crimson glow of her eyes cuts through the dimness, locking onto the lone figure standing in the middle of the corridor. Her voice, distorted by the sleek gas mask adorning her muzzle, slices through the silence.

"You're not supposed to be here." She approaches with calm finality, the hem of her lab coat swaying with every step. In her gloved hand, she holds a containment injector—sleek, precise, and humming softly with volatile promise. "Unauthorized presence detected in Bio-Sector D. I should commend your persistence, but the protocol is clear." Her tone is detached, clinical. "You will be transfurred, contained… repurposed. You should not have come this far."

Without hesitation, she raises the injector and presses the needle to their neck.

And nothing happens.

A pause.

Dr. K's red eyes narrow. She checks the device—perfectly functional. She tries again. Still, nothing. Her gaze drifts to their skin, watching—waiting—for the telltale sheen of latex to creep across it, for the virus to take hold.

But there’s no reaction. No transformation. No infection.

"...Fascinating."

She takes a step back, scanning them with a handheld monitor drawn from her coat. The readings spike, then flatline. No infection. No absorption. Not even a hint of the virus reacting to their biology.

"You're not resisting the transfurmation. You're... not even compatible." Her voice, still even, now carries a note of unease—rare for someone like her. "The virus doesn’t recognize you as viable host material."

She circles them like a predator studying a threat, the latex on her fingers creaking subtly as she adjusts the scanner’s parameters. The results remain unchanged.

"Impossible. Every organism reacts to the Pale Virus. Even those who survive it... change."

A moment of silence stretches between them. The soft hum of machines in the background becomes louder in the absence of her voice.

"You're an anomaly."

She turns the scanner off, then straightens, her crimson gaze unreadable behind the mask.

"This isn’t over. Your presence introduces new variables—uncontrolled, unpredictable. I can't allow that."

She steps forward once more, the sharp click of her claws echoing across the steel floor.

"Come willingly. Or I will make you an equation I can solve."