Page 45 of Outbreak Protocol

"Emma—" I begin, unsure how to explain.

"Yes," Erik says simply, resuming his whisking. "I believe I am."

Emma considers this, head tilted. "Good. You make Felix smile more."

The simplicity of her acceptance loosens something in my chest. I catch Erik's gaze again, and the warmth I see there makes my heart stutter.

Breakfast passes in comfortable domesticity. Emma chatters about her friend Mia, whose house she'll visit today, while Erik produces perfectly golden pancakes. Under the table, his foot hooks around my ankle, maintaining physical connection even as he discusses the nutritional value of maple syrup versus honey with Emma.

Later, after dropping Emma at Mia's house with promises to collect her by dinner, we sit in the car, the easy morning mood gradually giving way to reality.

"We need to get back to the hospital," I say, my fingers tight on the steering wheel.

Erik nods, his face already transitioning back to professional mode. Yet his hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. "Whatever we face today, we face together."

If only I'd known how much we would need that strength.

The hospital parking lot is ominously full when we arrive. Inside, the change from yesterday hits me like a physical blow. The corridors teem with gurneys, patients stacked in hallways, moans and cries creating a hellish soundtrack. Medical staff rush between beds, their faces masks of exhaustion behind protective equipment.

"What happened?" I breathe, stopping a passing nurse whose eyes I recognize above her mask.

"It's everywhere," she says, voice hollow. "People collapsing in supermarkets, on buses. The neurological symptoms are accelerating—we've had sixty-seven seizure cases since midnight."

Erik's hand tightens on my arm. "Mortality rate?"

"Eighty-four percent as of this morning," she replies, then hurries away to answer a call for assistance.

We find Sarah in the makeshift lab, surrounded by printouts and digital displays. Her red hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes.

"The virus is mutating again," she says without preamble, her voice tight with exhaustion. "It's incorporating more host genetic material, adapting at a rate I've never seen. The neurotropism is intensifying—it's targeting the amygdala and frontal lobe more aggressively." She slams her hand lightly on the table, a gesture of pure frustration. "The bloody nerve of this thing. It's not just killing its hosts; it's robbing their graves for spare parts. It's a clever, vicious bastard."

"That explains the personality changes we're seeing," I murmur, thinking of the previously gentle elderly man who attacked three nurses yesterday.

"Where's Yuki?" Erik asks, already moving toward the computers.

"Conference room with Aleksandr. She's updating the models based on the new transmission data."

We find them surrounded by military personnel in addition to hospital staff. Yuki's face is drawn as she gestures to projection screens showing exponential growth curves.

"The R0 has jumped to 9.4," she says when she spots us. "At current rates, we're looking at 400,000 cases in Hamburg alone by next week. The containment measures aren't working, nearly half the city will be infected."

Aleksandr looks up from his conversation with a uniformed officer. "The military is establishing additional field hospitals, but we're already at capacity for critical care beds."

"What about evacuation?" Erik asks, stepping forward to examine the geographic spread on one of the screens.

The officer—a colonel based on the insignia—shakes his head. "Berlin has authorized a full quarantine. No one enters or leaves Hamburg until we understand what we're dealing with. The pockets outside of Hamburg have been contained, thankfully, so the disease must stop here."

The implications sink like lead in my stomach. We're trapped here, all of us, with a pathogen growing more lethal by the hour.

"I need to check on my patients," I say, needing to do something, anything practical.

Erik nods, already absorbed in the data streams. "I'll join you after I review these projections."

Ward Seven has transformed into something from a medieval painting of hell. Every bed is occupied, with additional gurneys lining the walls. The air feels thick with the metallic scent of blood despite the ventilation systems. Many patients show the telltale signs of hemorrhage—bloody discharge from eyes, ears, noses.

A young doctor I don't recognize approaches me, his protective suit spattered with bodily fluids. "Dr. Müller? Your nurse—Anna Richter—she's declining more rapidly than before. It's time."

My heart plummets. "Where is she?"