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THE HUMIDITY IN Austin clung to Ruby’s skin, thick and suffocating.

She adjusted the hem of her mini skirt, her shins brushing against the worn leather of her cowboy boots. Her dark hair sat on top of her head in little space buns—pink and purple glitter dropping onto the floor with her every step—courtesy of a woman running a hair booth.

The festival grounds stretched out before her in a kaleidoscope of neon lights, thrumming bass, and bodies moving in sync to the music.

The scent of sweat, beer, barbecue, and weed coated—a concoction that filled her lungs with every breath.

Phlogiston, swirls of blue and green, floated in every empty space, fueling her, letting her feast.

She could pretend to be another person in the crowd.

But a canister sat heavy in her hand.

She pulled the pin, knowing in every corner of festival grounds, other thermophiles, and Jonah, were doing the same.

A small pop, barely noticeable over the roar of the festival. The canister tumbled to the dirt, rolling beneath a tangle of moving bodies. Smoke billowed out, curling into the air, thick and colorless.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the screaming started.

It spread like wildfire—people gasping, clutching their stomachs, collapsing where they stood. Phones shot up, cameras rolling, livestreams starting. The music cut off, confusion sweeping through the crowd before panic took hold.

Ruby stood in the middle of the fairgrounds, watched it unfold, a twisted grin curling her lips.

This could not be undone.

No more cover-ups. No more pretending.

IN ONLY A week, the world had changed.

The government had no choice but to come forward. The Thermophile Control Agency, the bacteria, the cure—every secret unraveled under the weight of undeniable evidence.

Press conferences played on repeat. Officials scrambled to contain the outrage. Hospitals were flooded.

The newly infected would recover. Their bodies hadn’t adapted yet. A quick dose of the cure, and they were fine.

But the old ones? The ones who had lived with the bacteria for years? Their bodies no longer knew how to function without it. The cure had to be administered in careful doses, then monitored for signs of organ failure. Too much, too fast, and it would kill them.

Some didn’t survive either way.

Risk of exposure meant no transplants could be made, no surgeries conducted without ensuring the cure removed all the bacteria. If an organ failed, they died. Their immune systems were shot after the cure, so if even the newest of thermophiles caught a cold or stomach bug, they died.

The music festival wasn’t the only hit. Dozens of high attendance places, a few sporting events, an opening of a new mall, a presidential candidate’s rally, all had thermophiles with canisters, infecting under a million Americans over a period of 24 hours.

Not all had the bacteria immediately activate.

Some locations had no phlogiston, not like the music festival did.

Ruby wanted the citizens to fear they had been infected, to get exposed in the future.

She ensured the panic would last for days, weeks, maybe longer.

Protests erupted in every major city. The TCA, once operating in the shadows, now had nowhere to hide. Their labs were raided, their research exposed.

She watched it all unfold from a motel room, Jonah and Lucas by her side, the flickering TV casting pale light over their faces.

She had done what she set out to do.

The world knew the truth.

And it would never be the same.