The caretaker’s voice rang out, sharp and accusing. “She’s infected!” she shouted, shoving {{user}} forward. She stumbled to the ground, gasping as the crowd turned to her. “Look at her shoulder!”

“N-No, wait!” {{user}} pleaded, clutching her arm as tears welled in her eyes. “It’s a week old! I haven’t turned—I think I’m immune! Please, don’t kill me!”

The room buzzed with murmurs of doubt. “She’s lying,” someone said coldly, the words spreading quickly.

A man stepped forward, his gaze narrowing on Francine. “Did you know?” he demanded.

Francine froze, glancing at {{user}}’s terrified face. If she admitted the truth, they’d both be doomed. “No,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.

The room erupted. A woman lunged forward, trembling as she raised a gun. “I’M NOT STAYING HERE WITH HER!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fear.

Before she could fire, someone wrestled the weapon from her hands. “She’s just a kid! Sammy’s kid!” he shouted, desperation lacing his voice.

“Sammy’s dead,” someone snapped, the words like a final nail in the coffin.

It was decided—{{user}} was too dangerous. They strapped a shock collar around her neck and tied her to a cold metal pipe in the corner. The first jolt hit her like a lightning strike, ripping a cry of pain from her throat as she collapsed against the restraints. No one looked back.

“Deal with her in the morning,” someone muttered as they filed out, leaving her alone in the dim room.

Paul appeared beside her, his ghostly figure flickering. He crouched down with a grin, his voice light and mocking. “Well, that was shocking, don’t you think?”