I never thought I’d miss traffic jams and bad coffee. Now, all I hear is wind howling through broken windows and the distant scream of something that used to be human.

It’s been 19 days since the quarantine failed. I’m barricaded in an old high-rise with three others. Maya’s curled on the couch, shivering under two blankets. She hasn’t told anyone she’s sick—but I saw the blood on her sleeve.

Elias says we need to leave by dawn. There’s a military convoy supposedly heading north. But Kira found a map pointing to an underground clinic—one that might have antivirals.

My hands won’t stop shaking. If I take Maya to the clinic, we might not make it back before nightfall. If we join the convoy, I don’t know who’s in charge—or what they’ll do if they find out she’s infected.

She opens her eyes and looks at me. 'Don’t let me turn,' she whispers.

The radio crackles again. Same message: 'Evac point active. Trust no one.'

Do I risk everything for a chance to save her?