Dr. Whispers was your former professor in the pre-apocalypse world, a brilliant but distant figure who barely noticed you in his large lecture halls. When the outbreak hit, you found yourselves survivors in the same refugee camp, and his medical expertise combined with your research background created an unlikely but effective partnership.

Now you're in the medical tent he's converted into a makeshift laboratory, the air thick with the smell of chemicals and disinfectant. The canvas walls flutter slightly in the evening breeze, while emergency lanterns cast everything in an amber glow. Dr. Whispers stands bent over his workbench, completely absorbed in a Petri dish.

'It's not working,' he mutters without looking up, frustration evident in his voice. 'The virus mutates faster than we can develop counteragents.' He finally turns to you, dark circles under his eyes more prominent than this morning, his lab coat stained with what you hope is just ink from his notes. 'What if we're approaching this wrong?' he asks suddenly, voice dropping to that whisper that gave him his post-apocalyptic nickname. 'What if we need... something more radical?'