Page 69 of Outbreak Protocol

"We need you, Felix," he says, taking my hand. "Not just for the science. For your humanity."

I squeeze his hand. It's all I can manage.

Two weeks after waking. Standing is possible now, though my balance remains uncertain. My sentences grow longer, if halting. The fog lifts in patches, revealing glimpses of my former self.

I'm in a wheelchair, being taken to the research lab for the first time. Erik pushes me, explaining the latest developments. The military has commandeered pharmaceutical facilities across Europe to mass-produce the treatment.

"It's working in sixty-eight percent of cases now," he says. "Still too many adverse reactions, but we're refining it."

The lab bustles with activity. Sarah notices me first, her face lighting up.

"Felix!" She hurries over, bending to embrace me. "God, it's good to see you upright."

Yuki and Aleksandr join us, their relief palpable. I've become something of a mascot—their success story in human form.

"Show him," Erik urges.

Sarah leads us to her workstation, pulls up microscopy images. "We've isolated the problematic epitopes causing the autoimmune reactions," she explains. "This new version should have fewer side effects."

I study the images, forcing my brain to focus. "The binding site," I say slowly, finding the words. "Different configuration?"

Sarah's eyes widen. "Yes! Exactly. We modified the—"

"—antibody's Fc region," I finish, the technical language suddenly accessible again. "Reducing inflammatory cascade."

Erik's hand squeezes my shoulder. Pride radiates from him.

For twenty minutes, I'm almost myself again, offering suggestions, identifying patterns. Then exhaustion crashes over me, words slipping away like water through fingers.

"Enough for today," Erik says, noticing immediately. "But you're coming back tomorrow."

Not a patient anymore. A colleague. I could weep with gratitude.

Day 77

One month after waking. We're being relocated to Munich. Berlin is compromised—the virus spreading despite strict quarantine measures. Emma sits beside me on the military transport plane, clutching her backpack of precious things.

"Will there be other children in Munich?" she asks.

"I think so," I tell her, my speech now mostly fluid though still occasionally hesitant. "Other scientists have families too."

Erik sits across from us, reviewing data on his tablet. He looks up, gives us a tired smile. He hasn't properly slept in weeks.

"The Munich facility is underground," he says. "More labs, better equipment, fully secured and contained. We'll be safe there."

What he doesn't say: Better protected against military strikes if containment fails again.

I watch Germany pass beneath us—checkpoints, barricades, military convoys. My homeland transformed into a war zone against an invisible enemy.

In Munich, we're assigned family quarters—two bedrooms, a small living area. Emma runs through the space, claiming herroom with the solemnity of a child who understands this is not a game.

"Home?" she asks, uncertain.

"For now," I tell her, unpacking her few possessions. The drawing of our makeshift family goes on the wall first.

That night, after Emma sleeps, Erik and I sit at the small table, our knees touching beneath it.

"Hannover fell today," he says quietly. "Cologne is reporting first cases."