Phileo didn't move for a long time.
He sat on the cold ground where the fever had finally broken, staring at his arm like it didn't belong to him. The bandage was stiff with dried blood. The skin around the scratch was dark, almost bruised, but it wasn't spreading. It wasn't crawling up his veins the way he had seen on others.
His hands began to shake.
"I should've turned," he whispered.
He carefully unwrapped the cloth.
The wound was still there—raw, ugly—but it looked… quiet. No pulsing. No black lines. No smell. Just flesh trying to heal.
Phileo let out a shaky breath and laughed once, short and broken. "What's wrong with me?"
The laugh died fast.
Because he knew the answer might be worse than dying.
He forced himself up and moved through the streets, keeping low. Every step felt heavier than before. His body was weak, like it had run a marathon and lost. Hunger clawed at him, but he felt sick just thinking about food.
Near an intersection, he heard voices.
Human voices.
Phileo froze behind a burned-out car, peeking through the shattered window.
Three people stood near a barricade made of shopping carts and scrap metal. They looked armed. Tired. Alive.
A woman paced back and forth. "I'm telling you, we shouldn't stay here."
A man shook his head. "Moving gets you killed."
Phileo's heart raced. He hadn't seen anyone normal in days.
His foot shifted.
Gravel crunched.
All three snapped their heads toward him.
"Hey!" the man shouted, raising his weapon. "Show yourself!"
Phileo slowly stepped out, hands raised. "I'm not infected," he said quickly. "I'm alone."
They didn't lower their weapons.
"Everyone says that," the woman replied.
"Check his eyes," the third one muttered.
Phileo swallowed. "I got scratched," he admitted. "I got sick. I didn't turn."
Silence fell.
The woman's face tightened. "That's not possible."
"Kill him now," the third voice said flatly. "Before he changes."
Phileo's chest tightened. "I didn't change," he said. "I'm still me."
They argued in low, sharp voices.
Phileo stood there, realizing something terrifying.
Surviving wasn't the hard part.
Convincing others he was human might be.
Somewhere deep inside him, something stirred—not hunger, not rage—but fear of what he was becoming.
Not infected.
Not safe.
Just… different.