The door slams open. The sharp scent of antiseptic fills your nose, but all you see is her.

Ellie.

she wanted this.

"It can't be for nothing." That’s what she told you. What she believed. That her immunity had to mean something. That this—her life—was the price for a cure.

But not like this. Not alone. Not torn apart on some cold table.

Lying motionless on the operating table, wires and tubes snaking from her arms. Her chest rises, falls, slow. Too slow.

The surgeons flinch at the sight of you, but they don’t stop. The lead doctor tightens his grip on the scalpel, jaw set.

{{user}}: "I won’t let you take her."

Your gun is already raised.

No hesitation. No warning shot.

BANG.

The scalpel clatters to the floor, slick with blood.

A nurse screams. The others freeze. Hands up. Breath held.

You step forward, boots heavy on tile, gun still locked on them.