Page 55 of Outbreak Protocol

"But," Aleksandr interjects, "we might be able to create a modified version using human immunoglobulins as a base."

I lean closer to the screen. "How long?"

"To develop a proper treatment? Weeks, maybe months," Sarah says, then adds quickly when she sees my expression, "Buta preliminary version? With the equipment here and if we work through the night... maybe 24 hours."

"Felix might not have 24 hours," I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

"Erik," Sarah's voice softens. "His vitals are still stable under sedation. We have a window."

I nod mechanically, already moving to the next station. "Then we use every minute."

The hours blur together after that. Our team works in desperate, focused silence, breaking it only to share results or request materials. Outside our lab, the military presence grows. Through windows, I glimpse convoys withdrawing from the city's outer limits—a silent admission that containment is failing.

Colonel Santos visits at hour fourteen, her face grim as she watches our work.

"How much time do we have?" I ask without looking up from the centrifuge I'm loading.

"General Morrison has authorized final protocols if the situation doesn't improve within 72 hours," she says quietly.

My hands still momentarily. "Final protocols."

"Yes."

I resume my work, measuring precise amounts of serum. "That's a nice euphemism for bombing a major European city."

Santos moves closer, lowering her voice though we both know my team can still hear. "It's more targeted than that. But yes, the containment zone will be... sanitized... if we can't get this under control."

"Then I suggest you let us work," I say, meeting her eyes. "Because this is your only shot at control."

She nods once, sharply, and leaves.

At hour nineteen, I check on Emma, who has fallen asleep on a cot we set up near the observation window. She sleeps fitfully, her small face creased with worry even in unconsciousness. I adjust the blanket around her shoulders and return to the lab.

"Erik, look at this," Yuki calls, excitement edging his tiredvoice. "The modified antibodies are binding to the virus in the cultured samples."

We crowd around the microscope, watching as the treatment attacks viral particles in the petri dish.

"Is it working fast enough?" I ask.

"It's reducing viral load by approximately 68% in vitro," Sarah reports, checking readings. "Not a cure, but—"

"But enough to give his immune system a fighting chance," Aleksandr finishes.

For the first time in twenty hours, I feel a flutter of hope. "How soon can we produce enough for treatment?"

"Three hours for a full dose," Yuki says.

I glance through the window at Felix's monitors. His oxygen saturation has dropped another two points in the last hour. "Make it two."

My team nods, no one questioning whether it's possible. For Felix, we'll make it possible.

At hour twenty-two, I step away to call Dr. Helena Karlsson at ECDC headquarters.

"The military is preparing to sanitize Hamburg," I tell her without preamble.

"I know," she says, her voice heavy. "I've been fighting it at every level, but with the new transmission models—"

"We have a potential treatment," I interrupt. "Not a cure, but something that might help manage symptoms until we can develop one."