The sounds of footsteps reverberated through a purely white corridor, illuminated by languid, lifeless lights whose sole purpose was to light the morbid hallway without providing any warmth beyond what was necessary.
The owner of those footsteps was a man with light brown skin and hair, unshaven stubble, of average height and apparently in his thirties, wearing a sterile, lifeless lab coat—meant only to create an illusion of purity for the task he was about to face.
His steps were carefree and light, as if his mind, long accustomed, no longer cared about the macabre service he was to perform upon passing through the fortified entrance that announced itself at the end of the rhythm of his steps.
His gaze slid over what looked more like a solid metal wall than a door separating him from his next duty.
The light brown-haired man raised his arm and was about to slide his right hand into the pocket of his lab coat when he suddenly shuddered and quickly brought his hand to his mouth.
COUGH COUGH
After coughing, he cleared his throat, gently stroking it with a concerned look on his face. Sighing, he again reached for the object in his pocket.
He pulled out a metal-looking card and held it to a digital reader to the right of the entrance. Scanning noises echoed through the corridor, then the sound of hydraulic mechanisms and the door being dragged along its metal hinges resounded, forming a cacophony of piercing, reverberant sounds.
He passed through the entrance into a space whose only resemblance to a changing room was the Level A chemical-protection suits displayed on a metal rack to his left.
His eyes traveled around the cold environment—across tables with more protective gear, warning and regulation signs printed on the white walls—until they landed on the wall opposite the armored entrance. There lay a frosted glass door, with a single simple analog keypad lock separating the area behind it from the changing room.
The man then walked to a sink surrounded by numerous chemical bottles, picked out one in particular, and emptied it into his hands.
Rubbing each finger thoroughly, he turned on the faucet and felt the cold water running between his fingers. He then shook his hands dry and patted them with an alcohol‑moistened paper towel.
Raising his left arm and letting the sleeve of his lab coat fall back, he revealed a simple watch, and upon checking the time, he sighed.
"I'd better suit up now, before that workaholic gets even madder than he probably already is."
He moved to a row of lockers, opened one, took out a pair of shoes and a set of surgical garments already prepared, and began changing into them—ending up wearing only the new shoes on his feet and his new outfit.
Next to the rack with the Level A suits, he opened a drawer, removed the under‑gear, put it on, then donned the heavy suit over his clothes. Once all the safety latches were secured, he walked to the glass door.
In front of the door, he reached for the lock and dialed a combination of numbers, until a robotic voice spoke:
"Individual confirmed, Doctor Hebert Martin, citizenship ID two‑four‑seven‑five‑six‑nine‑eight‑two. Access granted."
CLICK
At that sound, he seized the handle and pulled, quickly entering a small fog‑filled chamber. When he closed the door behind him, another robotic voice sounded:
"Beginning extensive purification process. Please avoid any sudden movements, do not inhale the chamber gas, and keep your eyes closed."
Already familiar with the procedures, Hebert stopped breathing and remained still. With a hydraulic hiss, an automated hose extended from one wall, connecting to a port on his suit. Once latched, mechanical noises filled the cramped space, leaving him slightly disoriented.
Then, as if chaos had formed in the tiny room, the fog began swirling endlessly while liquids dripped onto his suit and evaporated immediately. The same occurred inside the suit as the gas was expelled through the hose attached to his outfit.
After about ten seconds of holding his breath with his eyes closed, the hose sucked all the gas from inside the suit and replaced it with even purer air before disconnecting.
"Procedure complete. Permission to proceed to Kranver Autopsy Area granted."
CLICK
Hearing the door unlock ahead, he extended his arm and touched a camouflaged door handle amid the now‑calmed mist. Had he not passed this way several times before, he would have taken much longer to find it.
Quickly pushing through and closing the door behind him, he entered a new environment.
Behind the door lay what looked more like a sacred auditorium: a large, circular room lined with gleaming ivory‑like panels. The object of this audience lay on a metal slab in the center of the room.
Hebert, already near the object hidden under a pure white cloth, with a faint humanoid silhouette barely discernible, glanced at the other individual in the room before him—also shrouded in the same protective gear.
The other person was arranging an array of desiccation instruments on a pale metal table; the only sound in the room aside from Hebert's heavy breathing was the gentle clink of tools.
"You're ten minutes late, Hebert," a seemingly masculine voice spoke from behind the suit, muffled by the layers of protection.
Embarrassed, Hebert cleared his throat.
"My daughter has apparently developed the cognitive ability to realize that if she pitches enough tantrums, she won't have to eat lettuce."
Joining the other individual to organize the heavier equipment—surgical saws and other high‑power drilling apparatus—he continued:
"But unfortunately for her, her mother has always been better at tantrums than she is, so I ended up dragged into this vegetable‑inclusion battle… I hope not to see another lettuce for at least a week…"
"Hm." Hebert hadn't expected more than a terse response, but as the two finished setting up, they moved to the metal slab equipped with micro‑saws.
Each positioned themselves on either side of the iron table, staring at the white shroud concealing what had terrorized the Inner Ring for days. The second individual reached for one end of the cloth and slid it off.
Any human observer could draw only two conclusions: either a human corpse had been tortured and disfigured to inhuman levels, or a demon had descended to earth.
Its skin was necrotic and pale, bruises blotching every inch. The tibia, fibula, femur, radius, ulna, and humerus were stretched to their limits, tearing muscle tissue that couldn't keep up. The clavicles jutted sharply beneath the skin; ribs gaped like a basket, intercostal muscles completely ruptured. The lungs were swollen to astonishing size—signs of pneumothorax evident. The face lacked any fatty tissue, leaving bone structure starkly visible; the jawline was pronounced with pointed teeth, and the eye sockets were hollowed, the eyes frozen in terrified widening. The body was still in rigor mortis.
"Preliminary analysis by the Disposal Corps indicates pneumonia infection. But you don't even need to look to see that the meta‑infection failed during the process. Or perhaps… a mutation? No case of a failed meta‑infection has ever been catalogued, so hypotheses point only to a possible mutation."
Hebert began dissecting, first opening the thoracic cavity to expose the lungs.
The other individual stood with hands resting on the metal slab, watching the corpse.
"If not a meta‑infection failure, and we consider it a mutation, we have two options. The first would be that the patient had a preexisting genetic mutation… But that can be ruled out—his clinical analyses show no significant or unknown mutations."
As he continued opening the pulmonary cavity, Hebert added at the other's prompt:
"So the second option can only be…"
"A mutation in the pneumococcus bacterium."
Finishing the lung cavity, Hebert stared at his colleague.
"Bacterial? The possibility of fungal or viral has already been ruled out?"
"I'd like to know as well. The Disposal Corps intelligence only indicates it couldn't be viral or fungal."
Hebert bowed his head slightly in thought and murmured:
"The intelligence medics aren't idiots; they'd have received the prior Kranver report, so they would have also hypothesized mutation… Yet they still confirm it was bacterial?"
With a sigh, the other individual resumed analyzing the lung tissue. Using a metal spatula, he scraped the inner walls of the lung and extracted a sticky, black paste from them.
"The exudate from the alveoli matches the basic description of Pneumaston…"
"The Inner Ring has some of the strictest regulations in the entire fortress, and even among other strongholds in the region, Nestfar is notorious for its rigidity… And yet, the only meta‑infection in over a decade with no prior cases is a mutation? Bacterial, no less—the easiest to catalyze a mutation…"
COUGH COUGH
In mid‑sentence, Hebert coughed, bringing his hand in front of the sealed helmet by reflex.
"S-Sorry… My throat's been a bit dry since dinner… Haha."
He scratched the side of his helmet apologetically.
His colleague paused the analysis, gave Hebert a heavy sigh, and said:
"How about dropping the conspiracy theories and focusing on the work?"
Sensing his colleague's dwindling patience, Hebert grabbed his micro‑saw and proceeded to open the skull. He cleared his throat again to ease the dryness and added:
"…There's no way around it. You received the reports on the artificial mutations carried out in the fortresses north of the Middle East. That was obviously intended to bring down that stronghold!"
Shaking his head, his colleague's sigh turned annoyed.
"Even if your theory about attacking the fortress is correct, tell me why whoever did it would come all the way to Central Europe just to hit a relatively minor stronghold?"
Splitting the skull in two, his colleague joined him in assisting.
"Hyper‑developed limbic system with emphasis on the cerebellar amygdala… every other lobe atrophied—the usual for most Kranvers… But even so, we can't dismiss that hypothesis, can we?"
"If you want to drown yourself in conspiracy theories, go ahead…"
COUGH COUGH
Interrupting his colleague, Hebert suffered another coughing fit.
Looking at Hebert as if trying to see through the reflective visor, he asked:
"…Just a dry throat after dinner? Are you sure?"
COUGH COUGH
With his hand over the helmet, Hebert defended himself:
"N-No need to worry so much, just a sip of water after the autopsy and I'll be fine, haha." He waved dismissively.
Trembling slightly, he pointed at the corpse's abdomen and suggested:
"Let's move on to the digestive system—w-who knows what unusual findings we might uncover…"
COUGH COUGH COUGH
This time, Hebert tried to clutch his throat as if irritated.
Slowly, his colleague moved step by step toward a point on the wall with an emergency button.
"Hebert… A post‑dinner dry cough wouldn't be this extreme, and you've never had throat issues on your medical record—you know I have access to it. So tell me… this cough didn't just start after dinner, did it?"
Hebert turned to his colleague, watched him move toward the emergency alarm, and reached out as if trying to calm him.
"C-Calm down! No need to rush! …It really didn't start just after dinner… But it's not that serious!" He took a step forward, alternating his gaze between his friend and the alarm.
"Sometimes it's just a piece of food stuck in the throat or near the lung, it shouldn't be anything…"
"For how long?"
"H-Huh?"
Now beside the alarm, his colleague slowly raised his arm toward the button and asked again:
"For how many days, Hebert?!"
Hebert froze, as if his legs had locked, preventing him from moving forward. His hands trembled with nerves, and a cold sweat ran beneath his protective suit.
Clenching his fists, he lowered his head and replied:
"…About three days."
Uóóóóóhhhn! Uóóóóóhhhn!
Among the red lights of the room, Hebert looked up, disoriented by the sudden and loud alarms. Turning back to his colleague, he saw him pressing the emergency button with a clenched fist.
"Exactly three days. Coincident with the meta‑infection of Paul Menet Varnz… our patient delivered by the Disposal Corps… You're not an idiot—you must've connected the dots, especially with your conspiracy‑minded brain… Why didn't you say anything?"
The red light reflected onto his colleague's visor, the oppressive alarm blared, Hebert's throat itched, sweat trickled under his suit, and anxiety tightened its grip.
"I…"
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
Clutching his own chest, Hebert gasped for air, hacking violently as if tearing at his vocal cords.
KHAM KHAM KHAM KHAM
Huff huff
The alarms swelled and fell in time with his heaving chest.
His pupils darted under the visor, fingers trembling, as he stared at his colleague and waited. But both already knew the truth… both understood what happened to the Sick. The Containment Corps might not deal in the same brutal finality as the Disposal Corps, but their experience with cadavers taught them that, in many cases, the Disposal Corps offered a more merciful end.
"Please! You've seen what they do to bodies that come to us after going through Containment! And if there's even a chance of mutation, imagine what they'll do to me!"
"Tell them it was a mistake! Please! We can handle this privately! I'll make an excuse for my family, and if everything goes wrong… if it doesn't work… I don't know, but it doesn't have to be with the Containment Corps!"
Hebert gesticulated desperately as his colleague watched silently, as if trying to see through the visor. His hand trembled over the button.
"I…"
BAM
Tlin Tcling Crinc
With a loud crash, the two turned toward the autopsy room entrance: the door had been blown off its hinges, shards of glass littered the floor, and the mist that had been confined now billowed into the room.
Tec Tec Tec Crr
Amidst the slow steps over the broken glass, several silhouettes emerged from the red‑tinged mist, stepping over the shards one by one. Five figures in black armored suits, fully sealed, each carrying a backpack with a tube snaking up to their helmets.
Their heavy, filtered breaths rasped through the air, threatening anyone's hearing. Weapons raised, all aimed to the inhuman corpse at the center of the room.
"Containment team at designated location. No movement from the Kranver. Doctors, report. What triggered the alarm?"
The figure at the center of the group—apparently a man—looked at Hebert's frozen, trembling form, then shifted his gaze to the other person at the emergency button.
Hebert followed the official's eyes to his colleague.
Pressed by their stares, alternately between the officer and his friend—who had begged him moments ago to keep silent, fearing what awaited him—Hebert's colleague heavy breathing cut through the alarm's shriek as he looked to the officer.
Silence stretched only a heartbeat before the central figure spoke again:
"Repeating central command… explain the cause of the alarm, Doctor Misha Krankenfeld."