"I—I got stuck."
The words barely finished leaving Nguyen's mouth before Sharon moved.
No warning.
No discussion.
No chance for anyone to stop her.
Sharon snatched another syringe from the tray, thumb already depressing the plunger to clear air, and drove the needle straight into Nguyen's thigh with practiced force.
"Sharon—!" Patel shouted.
Too late.
Nguyen gasped once, sharp and startled, then her knees buckled. Sharon caught her under the arms as her body went slack, lowering her hard to the floor.
"She's out," Sharon said, already moving. "She'll stay that way."
Reyes stared, horrified. "What did you—"
"Fast-acting sedative," Sharon snapped. "Drops heart rate. Slows circulation."
Nguyen lay still on the tile, eyes rolled back, chest rising shallow and uneven.
Patel shook himself into motion. "Sharon, you can't just—"
"I can," Sharon said, voice razor-flat. "And I just did."
She grabbed Nguyen's hand.
The puncture site was already swelling, the skin around it flushed and angry, veins standing out like dark threads beneath translucent skin.
It was moving.
Not visibly—but Sharon could feel it. A warmth that didn't belong. A pressure that pulsed faintly against her fingers.
"Scalpel," Sharon barked.
Reyes froze. "Wait—what?"
"Scalpel. Now."
McAllister's face drained of color. "Sharon—"
"We cut it off," Sharon said. "Before it spreads."
Nguyen's heart monitor showed a sluggish rhythm now. Slow. Controlled.
Exactly what Sharon wanted.
Patel swallowed hard. "You're talking about amputating her finger."
"Yes."
"You don't know if—"
"I know enough," Sharon said. "Bites turn. Scratches don't. This is blood-to-blood. Direct injection."
Evan growled.
Low.
Wet.
The sound slid across the room like oil.
Everyone turned.
Evan's body strained against the restraints, muscles bunching unnaturally beneath the sheet. His head jerked to the side, jaw snapping open and shut, teeth clacking hard enough to echo.
Foam spilled from his mouth again—thick, pink-tinged.
"He's reanimating," McAllister whispered.
"No," Sharon said, eyes never leaving Nguyen's hand. "He already did."
She held out her hand again. "Scalpel."
Reyes's hands shook as she placed it in Sharon's palm.
The blade gleamed under the harsh light.
"Tourniquet," Sharon ordered.
Patel moved on reflex.
They wrapped it tight around Nguyen's finger, cinching until the skin blanched white.
Nguyen didn't stir.
Good.
"Alcohol," Sharon said.
Reyes poured it liberally, the sharp smell cutting through blood and fear.
Outside the door, something slammed hard—once, twice.
The lone officer shouted something muffled, desperate.
Evan screamed.
Not a human scream.
A tearing sound that came from deep in his chest, straining vocal cords that no longer cared about pain.
His body bucked violently. The restraints groaned.
"Hold him," McAllister said, backing away instinctively.
"He's secure," Patel said, though his voice shook.
Sharon didn't look at Evan.
She brought the scalpel down.
The blade bit cleanly into flesh.
Reyes gagged.
Bone resisted for a split second—then gave with a soft, wet crunch that Sharon felt through her wrist.
She didn't hesitate.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't stop until the finger came free in her gloved hand.
Blood poured, dark and thick, slower than it should have been—sluggish, like it didn't want to leave the body.
"Cauterize," Sharon said.
Patel moved fast, pressing gauze, then heat.
The smell of burned flesh filled the room.
Nguyen's body jerked once under sedation, a reflex, then stilled again.
Sharon dropped the severed finger into a specimen container and sealed it.
"Time," she said. "Mark it."
Reyes's voice trembled as she checked the clock. "Twenty-seven seconds from exposure."
"Good," Sharon said.
Evan slammed his head back against the bed.
The sound cracked.
His eyes rolled wildly, milky and wrong, tracking movement without recognition.
His lips peeled back from his teeth.
"Sharon," Patel whispered. "He's watching us."
"I know," she said.
Evan lunged again.
The restraints held—but barely.
Plastic creaked.
Metal squealed.
"Sedatives won't stop him," McAllister said. "His heart rate's not spiking. He's not reacting like—"
"Like a living person," Sharon finished.
She looked down at Nguyen.
Alive.
Sedated.
Missing a finger.
Possibly saved.
Possibly not.
Outside the door, the moaning grew louder. Closer. A chorus now.
Hands dragged along the wall.
The officer yelled again—fear thick in his voice.
Sharon stood slowly.
"We watch Nguyen," she said. "We watch Evan."
She peeled off her gloves and stared at the blood smeared across them.
"This is the line," Sharon said quietly. "Once it crosses into the bloodstream—"
Evan snarled, saliva spraying, head thrashing against restraints that bit into his wrists.
"—you don't come back," Sharon finished.
She looked at Nguyen's bandaged hand.
Then at Evan's teeth.
Then at the door.
And she knew—deep in her bones—that whatever was happening inside this building was moving faster than they could ever hope to stop.
But not faster than a blade.
Not yet.