The corridor had dropped into a strange, suffocating silence. The siren wasn't wailing anymore—just that low, rhythmic pulse, a heartbeat through steel, leaking tension into every corner of the room. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The damage was already done.
Kyle still knelt beside Martinez's body, his hands covered in drying blood. A med pack lay abandoned beside him, gauze unwound, pressure bandages soaked through. None of it had been any use. Martinez's eyes were wide open, his mouth agape. The wound on his neck had torn clean through the carotid.
"He's gone," Kyle stated factually, more to the room at large than to Halvorsen.
"No pupillary reflex," Halvorsen added factually, taking the vitals one final time with a handheld scanner. "Asystole for five minutes. Unmeasurable blood pressure. Zero respiratory effort. No cortical activity."
There was no question. This was death.
Behind them, 1D-734 had not moved.
The patient remained in the center of Containment Chamber B-4, face toward the reinforced ballistic glass. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. Slumped-forward shoulders, knees flexed just enough to suggest potential energy. His head was tilted in a way that no longer suggested confusion or daze. It seemed to be observation.
Kyle stood up slowly, took off his bloodied gloves, and tossed them at the waste container mounted on the wall. They missed.
"Close the observation windows," Halvorsen said, walking over to the manual control panel.
Dorsey's eyebrow went up. "You sure? That's a lockout. We'd need Admin to override if we want them reopened."
"We don't need eyes on it anymore," she replied. "Not if all we're doing is watching it watch us.".
Dorsey didn't wait another second before stepping across to the panel. With a quick twist of the lock-release and a hand-scanned affirmation, the heavy steel shutters began descending across the window sections—thick slabs of tungsten-impregnated barrier armor designed to withstand internal explosion or breach. They fell with a low mechanical thud, sealing 1D-734 from sight.
No one said anything, but the room abruptly felt colder.
Kyle turned to Halvorsen. "Vital signs on the subject before you closed it off?"
"Shallow breathing but breathing. No indication of decay. Muscle tone intact. Core temperature still baseline. EEG showed minor irregularities, but no definitive seizure activity. It's as though we have a person in a long-term catatonic state—with full postural control and autonomic balance."
"That's not catatonia," Kyle said. "That's something else. Something that understands stillness."
Knowledge implies intent," Dorsey muttered. "And intent implies cognition."
Ocampo entered from the far hallway, moving quickly, tablet clutched under one arm and an N95 mask draped loosely around her neck. Her face was pale but not panicked—just… subdued.
"We've got another incident," she said. "North corridor, 5-C. Researcher Caspian collapsed in the observation lab during the first wave of alert tones. Massive spike in neural activity followed by sudden drop—zero cardiac output. He was pronounced dead ten minutes ago."
Kyle rubbed his temples. "Cardiac event?"
"No. No sign of myocardial infarction. It was neurological—cerebral shutdown. They tagged him for morgue transfer and began prep for tissue sample collection."
That's not outside the ordinary for this stage," Halvorsen said. "We've had central nervous system compromise previously."
Ocampo nodded. "But one of the techs reported spontaneous movement on initial exam. Arm twitch. Shoulder displacement."
"Postmortem spasm?" Dorsey suggested.
"No," she said. "Too coordinated. The tech said it looked like he was trying to sit up."
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Halvorsen stepped back to the terminal and began calling up the infection records.
Provide me with the patient profile for Caspian," she commanded. The tablet synched quickly.
"Stage-three viral markers confirmed," she read. "Neuroglial inflammation elevated, synaptic reuptake imbalance, and triple compression waveforms on EEG with cortical silence. He was late-stage before collapse."
"Same as Martinez," Kyle whispered.
"And the same as 1D-734."
There was a slow, deep exhalation from someone—Dorsey, probably.
"That makes three patients at late-stage progression," Halvorsen said. "All exhibiting sustained autonomic function post-mortem. It's not systemic failure—it's transformation."
She hesitated on the word, as if saying it gave it more power than she wanted.
"We assumed death meant system loss. But we're not seeing that. We're seeing system conversion."
Kyle turned back to Martinez. The blood had stopped pooling. His body was still. Still warm, still flexible. But lifeless.
He didn't twitch. He didn't stir. No signs of what afflicted 1D-734.
"Why him and not them?" Kyle asked. "Same stage of infection. Same window of progression. Same timeline."
"Unknown variables," Halvorsen replied. "Vectors of mutation. Genetic compatibility. Immune response. Or maybe it is no longer about the virus. Maybe it is about time."
There was a gentle beep behind them.
Two containment technicians came in full hazmat transport attire. One was carrying a mobile containment gurney with a cryo-seal coffin, the other had a decontamination wand and a sealed containment bag.
"Pathology dispatch," the leader stated. "Here for retrieval. Cat-4 protocol at Dr. Halvorsen's request."
"Confirmed," she replied. "Subject is non-reactive but contaminated. Avoid any postmortem intervention until tissue preservation is completed.
Kyle stepped back as the techs worked with practiced ease. They used a body hoist to lift Martinez off the floor, rolled him into the inner bag, then closed the containment unit in layers—biobarrier lining, fluid-absorption layer, pressure-sealed outer shell. It shut with a vault-like click.
"Destination?" Kyle asked.
"Sublevel Three. Cold Storage. Direct to Autopsy Chamber 7."
As the stretcher rolled away, the hallway was silent once again.
"What's the timeline on Caspian's body?" Kyle asked.
"Already in transit," Ocampo said. "Also to Sublevel Three."
Halvorsen crossed her arms, her voice low. "Then we'll begin comparative analysis. If these reactivations follow a pattern, we'll find it in the neural tissue—maybe the glia, maybe in residual synapse signatures."
Kyle didn't answer. He was watching the last corner of the gurney disappear into the elevator.
"It's not random," he finally said. "They're not coming back at the same time. But it's a sequence."
Dorsey exhaled. "If that's true, we're not looking at reanimation. We're looking at a handover. Control leaving one system and passing to another."
"Keep that to yourself," Halvorsen said. "Until pathology confirms, this is all theoretical."
She turned to the group.
We're done here. I want everyone decontaminated and logged. Kyle, get to Monitoring Station 3B and begin pulling neural scan data on all stage-three cases. Dorsey, assist with sublevel access control. Ocampo, learn everything you can regarding non-standard movement patterns."
"And the subject?" Dorsey asked, glancing over at the sealed chamber.
"Leave it sealed," Halvorsen said. "If it's still standing in the morning, we'll reassess.
No intervention was made. They filed out quietly, the air behind them thick with sterilizer and stale breath.
The corridor emptied.
The lights went back to normal.
Behind the ballistic shutters, unseen, 1D-734 remained standing.
He had not moved.
But for some reason, it did not seem like rest.
It seemed like waiting.