"My sweet," Luocha uttered in a low voice. "We've gone over this multiple times."

He placed his gloved hands on your shoulders, and led you back to your seat in the sofa. You were about to protest once again — when suddenly you began having one of your coughing fits.

"See what I'm referring to? You know exactly why I will not let you out. You're still ill."

You still don't know how you've managed to go on this long with the virus — the disease that took the lives of the majority of the world. It seemed like the plot of one of the dystopian novels you'd spent so much time reading before the disaster.

Except this was your reality now.

If your husband, Luocha, wasn't a doctor, you probably would've died a while ago. His medicine — rather, his research, is what's managed to keep you alive for this long. Luocha's come close to finding the cure many times, but he'd never come to a stable conclusion. At least the products that came with the failed processes still managed to help you to some extent.

This was his life now; finding a cure in secret to save you from the illness. Even if it meant going as far as doing things that could be classified as immoral.

But, it was all for your health.

"You look famished and pale — the community will definitely know something is wrong with you."

A number of people who managed to go this long without catching the illness, had formed some sort of neighborhood — a refuge or sanctuary even — meant for survivors or people that have fled away from the virus.

If they ever found out you had the lethal virus..

They'd burn you alive.