And he had no idea that thirty minutes from now, the world was already beginning to break.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex and just sat there for a few minutes. He always did this. For some reason, stepping inside felt harder than going to work. Harder than anything.
After a short sigh, he forced himself out of the Civic and walked to his unit. The key rattled a little in the lock before the door swung open.
His roommate was on the couch, glued to MSNBC of all things. Cole hadn't seen him willingly watch the news once in his life. But the headline explained everything:
"AN ANCIENT VIRUS DESIGNATED HOV-1 DISCOVERED IN SUBGLACIAL ANTARCTIC CITY."
Cole froze halfway through the doorway, not even bothering to close the door.
"What the fuck is going on here?" he asked.
His roommate turned, face pale and eyes wide. "Dude… it looks like we got another COVID situation on our hands."
Cole let out a low chuckle under his breath. "Yeah. Seems so."
He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the hanger, and dropped onto the couch with a thud.
"You know… this is probably why I'm getting sent out tomorrow," Cole said.
"Oh, you got drill?" his roommate asked, not taking his eyes off the TV.
"Nah. Activation." Cole folded his arms behind his head. "They said I'm gonna be doing fueling missions for other units. But apparently everyone in the country's getting mobilized, so… yeah. Must be serious."
He said it casually, even though he probably wasn't supposed to say any of it.
And for a moment, the apartment felt too quiet.
Too still.
Like the world was holding its breath.
They both focused onto the tv as the anchor paused, pressing two fingers to her earpiece as if the update had just arrived.
"We… we're getting new information now. According to the preliminary reports coming out of the Antarctic research teams, HOV-1 — the so-called Hollow Virus — is not behaving like a traditional biological pathogen."
Cole's roommate sat forward.
The anchor continued, her voice going shaky.
"Scientists are reporting that the virus does not seem to replicate through cells. It doesn't appear to be airborne, waterborne, or spread through blood. In fact… early findings suggest it isn't behaving like a virus at all."
A new graphic appeared behind her: blurred images of twisted structures under the ice, tunnels that bent at impossible angles.
"Researchers are describing HOV-1 as a… quote, 'geometric contagion.' One scientist claims the virus interferes with normal physical laws in extremely localized areas. They say affected zones show—"
She glanced at her notes, swallowing.
"—gravity distortions, light bending, sound dropouts, and neurological disorientation in personnel. Several team members exposed to the site reported severe vertigo, visual disturbances, and… what's being described as momentary loss of time perception."
Cole and his roommate exchanged a look.
The anchor wasn't done.
"Most concerning, however… is the implication that the so-called Hollow Virus may not need to infect a person directly. It appears to alter the surrounding environment itself."
Cole's roommate muttered, "The fuck does that mean?"
The anchor continued speaking, faster now.
"One researcher stated, quote, 'It doesn't infect bodies. It infects reality. People are affected second. Not first.'"
Silence filled the apartment.
The anchor forced a tight smile that looked closer to fear.
"We'll be updating as more information comes in. For now, the CDC and FEMA are coordinating with the Department of Defense to monitor the situation."
The screen cut to a map of the world with flickering red zones, though nothing had officially been confirmed yet.
Cole stared, not blinking.
This wasn't COVID.
Not even close.
The world had just been told something was wrong with the rules of nature itself.
And nobody believed it —
not yet.
Night came quickly. Cole threw on his uniform and laid out his gear across the bed. For once in his life, he wasn't treating it like a joke. His hands were steady, but his chest felt tight. Serious. Nervous. Two emotions he rarely let himself feel.
He sat on his phone for almost an hour, procrastinating the moment he actually had to leave. But eventually, the clock hit 2 a.m., and he forced himself out the door.
Rain hammered the windshield as he pulled onto the highway. Two hours to the armory. He was already late—of course. Being late was mandatory in his mind, part of his personal code of conduct. If he ever showed up early, he'd probably die on the spot.
He turned the radio on again, partly to stay awake, partly because he needed to know what the hell was happening outside his little bubble.
The world felt different.
Like something had shifted in the last twenty-four hours.
Every station was talking about the same thing.
The Hollow Cities.
HOV-1.
The discovery under Antarctica.
The voices on the radio were frantic, layered over static and warnings and emergency updates that sounded half-formed.
"—researchers reported gravity fluctuations—"
"—not airborne, not biological—"
"—environmental distortion—"
"—global agencies coordinating—"
"—contact occurred before they understood what they were dealing with—"
Cole tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
The reporters kept saying the same phrase:
"They were exposed before they even knew it existed."
Thunder cracked overhead.
The Civic rattled like it was about to fall apart.
Cole leaned back in his seat and sighed.
The world had changed in a single day.
And whatever this virus was…
It had already slipped through the cracks long before anyone realized.
He rolled into the armory parking lot at 4:11 a.m.
Late.
As usual.
But this time, nobody seemed to care.
Nobody even looked at him.