Page 68 of Outbreak Protocol

Outside, the night continues, stars wheeling above the ruins of Hamburg, above the quiet facility where we work to atone for a failure that was never truly ours. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new grief, new determination.

But tonight, in this room, Felix is awake. Emma is safe. And for now, that has to be enough.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Day 50

FELIX

My body feels like a stranger. Heavy limbs, clouded thoughts, words that catch in my throat before they form. The virus has left its mark on me, even as Erik's treatment saved my life.

I watch the ceiling, tracking the movement of shadows. Berlin Military Hospital. Day three of consciousness, I think. Maybe four. Time blurs.

"Felix?" Emma's voice, bright against the sterile backdrop. "I brought you something."

She holds up a drawing—stick figures holding hands. Three of them.

"That's you," she points. "And that's Erik. And that's me."

I try to smile, but my face feels wooden. "Beautiful," I manage.

Erik appears in the doorway, his tall frame casting a long shadow. Dark circles under his eyes betray his exhaustion. He's been working non-stop on refining the treatment while caring for Emma and visiting me.

"How are you feeling today?" he asks, approaching the bed.

I want to say I'm fine, ready to help, ready to work. What comes out is: "Fog. Still fog."

He nods, understanding what I cannot properly articulate. The cognitive effects—confusion, word-finding difficulties, memory lapses—are common in survivors. No one knows if they're permanent.

"Sarah's modified the antibody structure," he tells me, sitting beside Emma. "Fewer complications in the newest batch."

I try to follow, to ask intelligent questions, but my brain feels wrapped in cotton. Frustration burns behind my eyes.

"Rest," he says, seeing my struggle. "Your brain needs time."

But time is the one thing we don't have.

Day 54

Day seven. I can sit up now, feed myself. The neurologist shows me pictures, asks me to name them. Clock. Pencil. House. Each correct answer feels like climbing a mountain.

"Remarkable improvement," she tells Erik when she thinks I can't hear. "But the language processing centres show significant damage. We can't be certain of full recovery."

I was a doctor. Now I'm a case study.

Emma visits after her lessons with the military school psychologist. She's adapting better than anyone expected, this resilient child who's lost everything. She crawls onto my bed, shows me the book she's reading.

"Can I read to you?" she asks. "Like you used to read to me?"

I nod, throat tight with emotion I can't express.

She reads slowly, carefully sounding out the bigger words. I follow along, sometimes supplying a word when she struggles. These moments of clarity feel like windows opening in a dark room.

Later, Erik brings reports, data, images of the treatmentbeing manufactured. He doesn't talk down to me, doesn't simplify. He speaks normally, letting me process at my own pace, waiting patiently when I struggle to respond.

"Hamburg wasn't the end," he tells me quietly. "Bremen fell yesterday. Military containment failed."

I close my eyes. More deaths. More destruction.