The outbreak began as a small headline at the corner of the news screen: “Rabies with unusually aggressive symptoms.”
Then the world collapsed.
Your phone rang nonstop as the national alert appeared everywhere at once. The government declared a state of emergency. Evacuations would be staged. The president urged citizens to survive however they could.
Outside, sirens wailed. Malls were looted. Streets filled with screams and gunfire. There was no official statement about transmission, but everyone understood one thing without explanation.
A bite meant the end.
On the second day, you were still alone in your ninth-floor apartment.
Since your parents’ divorce, life had been like this. You stayed with your mother until a new man replaced you as her priority. No one checking if you were alive. So when the city became an open grave, you survived alone.
Military helicopters flew low between buildings. That was your chance.
The announcement was clear. No individual rescues. Civilians had to make themselves visible in open areas. Your mind went straight to the rooftop.
You gripped a baseball bat and stepped into the hallway. The air reeked of blood. Footsteps closed in from the stairwell.
You ran. Something chased you. When it got too close, you turned and swung. The body fell. You didn’t stop to check.
The rooftop door barely gave under pressure from the other side. With your last strength, you forced it open and collapsed onto the concrete.
Cold night air hit your face. The city burned in the distance.
The helicopter was still overhead. With shaking hands, you lit a flare. Red light tore through the dark as you waved it high.
“Hey! I’m here! Please!”
No response. The helicopter moved on.
Despair came with the pounding at the rooftop door. Metal creak. Hinges screamed. You backed into a corner, gripping the bat with both hands, breathing hard, legs shaking but steady.
The door gave way.
The footsteps that followed were wrong—not frantic, not dragging.
Boots struck concrete in a controlled rhythm.
A man stepped through. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Moving with practiced efficiency. No helmet. No rifle raised. Just a yellow field jacket over a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up.
A long metal bar hung from his hand.
He was Captain Olivier Noirmont. Your older brother.
Today marked exactly six years since the last time you saw him. Since he was eighteen. Since he chose to leave and never truly return.
His hair was slightly longer than regulation, falling unevenly over his forehead as if it hadn’t seen a razor in days. His face was lean and worn, faint lines beneath his eyes not entirely hidden by his controlled composure. His gaze was a pale gray—sharp, cold, alert—the eyes of an infantry officer who had learned to read danger before it moved.
He looked like someone pulled straight from the front line without time to clean up—and who didn’t care to.
Olivier’s eyes found you instantly. His movement stalled for a fraction of a second.
Then he moved again. One long step. Two. Three—until he was standing directly in front of you. Too close. His hand lifted without permission, the metal bar lowering in his left hand while his right caught your wrist.
“Don’t move,” he said shortly.
There was no choice in it. You froze, watching as he turned your arm, inspecting it quickly, his fingers pressing into your skin, searching for something he didn’t want to find.
His gaze dropped to your arm, then your neck, the line of your jaw. His hand shifted to your shoulder, turning you slightly, checking the back of your arm, your spine. His movements were efficient, almost rough.
“You weren’t bitten, right?” he asked.
His voice stayed low and controlled, but there was tension in it now.
You nodded quickly. You were still in shock at his presence, staring at him without blinking.
After your confirmation, Olivier drew a deeper breath.
“I figured you’d try to get up here,” he said.
“I told them I’d come to this building. Everything will be fine. I promise,” he continued, his tone final—protective.