Fairview Containment had not been built with subtlety in mind. The building reeked of over-designed sterility—thick steel doors, negative pressure halls, and so many biometric locks that even a military bunker didn't feel secure. It didn't matter now. Security was theory, not fact.
Kyle stood just outside of Containment Chamber B-4, staring at 1D-734 through three inches of armored ballistic glass. The patient lay still on the floor. No spasms had occurred for six minutes running. No movement of breathing. Nothing. His body, tensed against its restraints mere moments earlier, now seemed to be drained—exhausted.
Behind him, Dr. Halvorsen was glued to her tablet, her gloved fingers flicking across graphs of vitals and behavior logs.
"No neuromuscular activity in the last 380 seconds," she said quietly. "But that doesn't make sense. He hasn't received sedation, and there's no recorded bradycardia or spike. He didn't crash—he just… stopped."
Kyle watched the body. "It's not clinical. It's strategic."
Halvorsen looked up at him. "You're saying it's voluntary?"
"I'm saying it feels like it. Like something inside him is waiting for the right moment."
She didn't respond. Her expression said everything—she was thinking the same damn thing, and she hated it.
Then, a sharp alert tone sliced through the corridor.
"Unscheduled movement detected in Containment Room B-4. All available security units respond."
Kyle stiffened. "That's this hallway."
Halvorsen's face drained of color. "Room just ahead. That's this patient."
Two security guards—Martinez and Dorsey—cut the corner, rifles ready, full tactical gear on. SOP. Kyle could already sense their stiff posture; no wardrobe would protect them if something actually was amiss.
Martinez took a step forward and slapped his wrist tag in front of the door lock. The light blazed green. The door creaked open with a hiss of pneumatic pressure.
What they discovered next was impossible.
1D-734 was standing.
The restraints were torn—one torn at the wrist, the other broken at the bolted hinge. His stance was unnatural—slightly hunched knees, rounded shoulders, head low like something between sleepwalking and creeping. His eyes were wide, unfocused, but not vacant.
"Don't move!" Martinez yelled, aiming his rifle.
But it wasn't fast enough.
With a single motion, 1D-734 moved forward—less a run, more a lunge. Not awkward. Not bestial. It was exact.
He ran into Martinez, hitting him with a jolt against the wall. The rifle fell to the floor. Dorsey shouted, moving in, gun raised—but Martinez blocked his path. No clean shot.
Then the bite.
It was brutal—honest—dead center between the shoulder and the neck. Blood spattered outward, a seeping red semicircle on the immaculate white floor. Martinez's scream turned raw as he thrashed, trying to get away.
1D-734 fired and dropped back. Not retreat—simply recalibration. As if the task had been done, the mission accomplished.
Dorsey fired twice—center mass.
The patient fell. Face-down. Still.
Kyle and Halvorsen rushed in as Dorsey kicked the rifle back to Martinez. Kyle dropped beside him, placing hands on the pumping neck.
"Pressure—gauze!" Kyle snapped.
Halvorsen was already tearing supplies out of the med pouch attached to the wall. Her hands moved on automatic. But there was too much blood. Martinez's eyes went blank, breathing thin. He blinked once. Again.
And ceased.
Kyle searched for his pulse.
Nothing.
Halvorsen pushed forward, looking down at Martinez's eyes. "No pupillary response. No spontaneous respiration."
Dorsey stepped back, shaking. "He's… dead?"
"Seal the room," Kyle ordered calmly.
Dorsey flicked the control panel next to the door. The heavy steel slid shut in a final metallic clunk. Red warning lights flickered across the top frame—LOCKDOWN ENGAGED.
Inside, the room fell silent again.
1D-734 lay on its stomach. Still. Martinez's body slumped against the wall, blood still draining slowly underneath him.
Halvorsen crossed over to the outside control panel, calling up the environmental parameters inside the chamber. It was protocol, but neither of them was expecting it to give them answers.
"No sedation dispersal," she growled. "Normal atmospheric pressure. CO2 within baseline. No chemical triggers. No shocks. The restraints weren't overridden—he physically broke them."
Kyle hunched over beside her, pointing to the motion telemetry. The graph completed—small spasms registered at irregular intervals—then a flatline. Then, a little while after Martinez had passed away, a single movement event.
"See," Kyle said. "Spinal reposition. Elbow extension. That's not a convulsion."
"Then it's volitional," Halvorsen breathed. "Coordinated motor function post-collapse? That's impossible. His CNS should be fried."
"Unless it's not in control anymore.".
Dorsey came closer to the glass, voice trembling. "He's not moving. He's down, right?"
Inside, the figure began to move.
It was small at first—fingers flexing. A ripple over the back muscles. The leg bending at the knee.
Then the torso spun around. The body rolled, one arm thrusting up against the floor, pushing itself upright. A moment later, 1D-734 stood.
Stood tall.
Balanced.
Breathing had resumed—slow, shallow, rhythmic. Not labored, not panicked.
"Temperature?" Kyle asked.
Halvorsen retracted the heat feed. Core body temperature remained stable—98.4°F. No fever. No cooling. No rigor.
"That's not right," she said. "We should be observing loss of muscle function. Cooling. Brain death."
"Take a look at the face," Kyle said.
The patient's eyes were open. Fixed straight ahead on the glass. No tracking, no scanning—just staring.
Martinez's body was still.
It hadn't been about feeding. It had been about transmission.
Halvorsen's hand dropped to her hip. She stood through the glass, still.
"This virus is not just contagious," she informed them. "It's adaptive. It's hijacking motor neurons, autonomic functions, and muscular control. He did not recover. He rebooted."
Kyle's mouth was dry. He could not take his eyes off the glass.
1D-734 did not proceed. He paced neither or tapped the walls.
He stood.
And watched.
As if he had exactly where they were.
And that the glass between them would not be eternal.