Three days had passed since the incident in the underground facility. The world above remained unaware, the depths below buried in silence. That silence would soon be broken.
Eleven soldiers, clad in full tactical gear, moved through the dense forest, their boots crunching against the damp earth. Coren led them—his presence was sharp, commanding, every movement calculated. The mission was clear. Secure the facility. Neutralize anything inside.
They reached the entrance—an unmarked metal door embedded into the rock face, weathered and unassuming. One of the technicians knelt, fingers gliding across a keypad, the screen flickering under his rapid hacking. The door's lock hissed, disengaging.
Coren signaled his team. Weapons raised. No one spoke. The heavy door groaned as it slid open.
A burst of stale air rushed out, thick and cloying with an acidic stench. The soldiers stepped inside, the corridor stretching into darkness. Flashlights sliced through the gloom, revealing overturned desks, shattered monitors, splintered flooring.
Then, movement.
A figure twitched in the shadows, huddled near a console—what remained of a scientist. His skin was pale, streaked with deep violet veins, his breathing ragged. His head lifted slowly, his eyes meeting theirs.
Purple.
Oozing.
The scent of burning fuel clung to him.
Coren didn't hesitate—one shot, clean, straight to the head. The body slumped against the console, motionless. He turned to his team.
"Take out anything infected," he ordered. "No exceptions."
Gunfire erupted, sharp blasts ricocheting against steel walls as more infected staggered into the light, eyes hollow, movements erratic. The bullets tore through them, bodies crumpling on impact.
But something was wrong.
One of the soldiers glanced at the ground—a fine mist curling through the air, pooling low, spreading beneath their boots.
No one noticed until their breathing became heavier.
Slower.
Coren swiped at his visor, chest tightening. A soldier coughed, then stumbled. Another staggered, gripping his weapon like it was slipping through his fingers.
No one had told them.
No one had warned them.
The virus had changed.
It was airborne.
And they had just walked straight into it.
The gunfire echoed through the underground facility, each blast tearing through the infected with sharp precision. Coren and his team moved with ruthless efficiency, clearing every corridor, every bloodstained lab room, every shattered containment sector. The scent of burning fuel lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, but none of them noticed the **shift**—the unseen mist curling through the vents, seeping into the cracks of their hazmat suits.
By the time the last body dropped, silence consumed the room.
Coren took a slow breath, lowering his weapon. His visor was fogged, his grip stiff, but the mission was done. He glanced at the others—all eleven men still standing, suits intact, weapons still warm in their hands.
"Call it in," he ordered, stepping over broken glass toward the main console.
A soldier pulled out his radio, static crackling as he sent the message. "Facility secured. No survivors. Requesting full clean-up crew."
There was no hesitation, no lingering questions. They had done what needed to be done.
The blast doors hissed open as they made their way back out into the cold, stepping past the rusted fencing surrounding the entrance. Military trucks sat parked nearby, their surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust from days of waiting.
Coren pulled off his glove, reaching for his phone, dialing the number of command.
"It's done," he said, his voice steady.
A brief pause on the other end. Then confirmation.
"Understood. Extraction in fifteen minutes."
He exhaled, finally allowing himself a moment of relief. The job was brutal, but necessary. The infection had been contained. The facility would be wiped clean.
None of them noticed the mist still clinging to their suits.
None of them noticed how it had spread into the air, carried by the faint breeze drifting through the trees.
The job was done.
But the virus had already left the underground.
It was out in the world now.
---
The scene shifts, pulling upward—rising above the desolate base where the soldiers unknowingly carried the virus into the world. The sky stretches wide, clear, unbothered by the horrors lurking beneath its surface.
Then, the transition—shifting from one continent to another, cutting across the deep blues of the Atlantic, sweeping over the steady hum of civilization.
America.
The sun hangs low in the sky, its golden light warming the streets of a suburban neighborhood. The afternoon air is thick with summer heat, wrapping around Brice as he loads the last bag into the trunk of an aging sedan. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, exhaling as he straightens up.
Brice stands tall, lean but solid, the kind of presence that carries quiet confidence without trying. His short curls frame his face, his brown eyes sharp, observant, always aware of his surroundings. He adjusts his stylish t-shirt, pulling it away from his skin where the heat makes it cling, the fabric darkened slightly from sweat. His water-colored sweatpants hang comfortably on his frame, loose enough to move, practical enough to get the job done. His black shoes scuff against the pavement as he steps back, giving the older woman space to check over her bags.
"That should be everything," Brice says, rolling his shoulders. He can already feel a sore ache building in his arms.
The woman pats his arm with a grateful nod, adjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "You're a sweet boy, Brice. Not many take the time to help these days."
Brice only shrugs, shaking his head slightly. "It's nothing, Ms. Hernandez. Just doing what I can."
Behind them, leaning against the front porch railing, Sabrina watches the exchange with a smirk playing at her lips. Her arms are crossed, her posture relaxed, but her eyes linger on Brice like she's holding back a comment.
"You know," she finally speaks, her tone teasing, "you do this too often. Some people are gonna start thinking you're a superhero or something."
Brice chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he closes the trunk with a firm push. "I'll let you know when I start wearing a cape."
Sabrina scoffs, her smirk widening slightly. "Please. You'd make it look ridiculous."
The easy banter is familiar, natural, the kind of back-and-forth that's been in place for years. Brice and Sabrina had grown up in the same neighborhood, their lives weaving in and out of each other like a constant rhythm neither had questioned.
Ms. Hernandez climbs into the driver's seat, giving them both one last appreciative nod before shutting the door and starting the engine. The soft hum of the car fills the air, the tires rolling against the pavement as she pulls away, disappearing down the street and leaving Brice standing there, hands in his pockets.
Sabrina steps closer, her eyes flicking toward him with a curious glint.
"So," she muses, "what's next on your hero duties?"
Brice exhales, stretching his arms above his head, letting the tension drain from his muscles. He doesn't notice the way the sky overhead is shifting—just barely, a subtle tint in the clouds, a hint of something unseen.
"Nothing," he says, rolling his shoulders. "For now, just taking it easy."
Sabrina hums, leaning against the porch column. "You always say that."
And he does. Because life had always felt like a waiting game, stretched out between moments that mattered and the spaces between them.
But neither of them knew.
Neither of them could feel the shift in the wind.
The change already in the air.
The virus was here.
And soon, nothing would be the same again.