Page 54 of Outbreak Protocol

"Dr. Müller, please transfer to the bed," instructs a voice through the intercom. "We'll begin baseline assessments immediately."

As I comply, I notice another containment room across the corridor through the glass. Empty, presumably waiting for Erik. The military team exits through an airlock, leaving me alone in the sealed environment.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the small scratch on my arm that may have just sealed my fate. The silence presses in, broken only by the soft hum of air filtration systems.

A lifetime of training has taught me to remain calm in emergencies, to focus on what can be done rather than what might happen. But now, alone in this sterile room, I find myself unable to maintain that professional distance. A tremor runs through my hands as I cover my face.

"Please," I whisper to the empty room, unsure who or whatI'm addressing. "Please, not now. Not when I've just found them. Not when they need me."

Through the glass, I see Erik being led to the adjacent containment room. Our eyes meet across the space between us, and I press my palm against the glass. He mirrors the gesture, his expression fierce with determination.

Even through two layers of reinforced glass, I can read his lips clearly:

"I'm not giving up."

With those four words, I feel something inside me straighten and strengthen. If there's anyone in the world who can defy statistical probability and find a solution in an impossible situation, it's Erik Lindqvist.

And if there's anything I've learned as a doctor, it's that hope, however fragile, is sometimes the most powerful medicine we have.

I straighten my shoulders and prepare to face whatever comes next—not just as a patient, but as a doctor who might still have something to contribute to finding a cure. For Emma. For Hamburg. For every patient I couldn't save before.

For the chance to wake up beside Erik again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Day 44

ERIK

I press my forehead against the observation window, my breath fogging the glass in rhythmic patches that appear and disappear like Felix's chances. Behind me, our makeshift laboratory buzzes with activity—centrifuges whirring, computer screens displaying protein models, my team calling out results in clipped, urgent tones.

But I can't look away from Felix.

"Is he going to be okay?" Emma's small voice breaks through my thoughts. She stands beside me, her head barely reaching my elbow, fingers splayed against the glass.

I should lie to her. I should offer comforting platitudes about how doctors always get better, how Felix is strong, how everything will be fine. But looking into those eyes—Anna's eyes—I can't bring myself to do it.

"I don't know, Emma." I kneel down to her level. "But everyone in this building is working to make sure he does."

She nods solemnly, a child who's already seen too much deathto believe in easy reassurances. "He promised he wouldn't leave me."

"Felix keeps his promises," I say, and that, at least, feels true.

Behind the glass, Felix lies motionless, intubated and sedated, his skin already showing the first mottled signs of hemorrhaging beneath the surface. The virus works with horrifying efficiency—twelve hours after exposure, his fever spiked to 40.2°C, followed by the seizure that prompted the medical team to induce the coma. Now machines breathe for him while we race against cellular death.

"Dr. Lindqvist," Sarah's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We have preliminary results from the parrot's antibody profile."

I squeeze Emma's shoulder. "I need to help them now. Can you stay here with Lieutenant Hertz?” I gesture to the young soldier who's been assigned to watch over Emma.

Emma nods, her small face set with determination. "Help Felix."

I join Sarah at the analysis station, where Yuki and Aleksandr are already reviewing data sets. The parrot—sedated and housed in a specialized containment unit—has become our most valuable research subject.

"The bird's immune response is fascinating," Sarah says, pulling up electron microscope images. "Its T-cells produce a unique interferon that appears to bind directly to the virus's spike proteins."

"Can we synthesize it?" I ask, scanning the molecular structure displayed on screen.

Yuki shakes his head. "Not directly. The immune response is too complex and species-specific."