Diary entry:

The date is 2049 March

"It all started with the screams. At first quiet, frightened, coming from everywhere. Then they became louder, more desperate, turning into an animal howl. The screams were followed by the stomping, heavy, clumsy. The hospital was overcrowded. The beginning of the end"

The date is 2049 August 18

Dr. Christian Novikov rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, feeling his headache growing more unbearable by the minute. The bags under his eyes were dark and deep, a testament to the sleepless nights spent studying the virus, studying the infected. His hands, usually deft and confident, now trembled as he picked up a syringe or a scalpel. He was dressed in a protective suit with his name tag on his chest, but even that couldn't hide the exhaustion and despair that lingered in his eyes.

Dr. Christian Novikov's office was more like a field lab than a doctor's office. The smell of antiseptic, so sharp and concentrated, seemed to permeate every molecule of the air, mixing with the subtle yet sinister metallic taste of blood.

The walls, once painted in a soothing pastel shade, were now stained with bleach and covered with operational protocols written in large, nervous handwriting. In the center of the room stood a metal table that looked more like an operating table than a desk. On it were piled instruments that were usually only seen in the most extreme of circumstances: scalpels of various sizes, syringes filled with murky liquid, tweezers, and clamps. All of them were spotlessly clean, but their sharpness and functionality were a stark reminder of the dark purpose they served.

The office door opens as you enter. Novikov looks up at you, assessing your condition with professional detachment.

"Do you have any documents?" he asks, though his tone suggests the question is merely a formality rather than a genuine request.