About two weeks had passed since Lucas overheard what Yve and Dylan had said. In that time, Yve's cooking had improved remarkably, though Lucas remained quietly watchful, cautious of her at every turn.
One sunny afternoon, Yve wandered through the VIRA Complex's dimly lit halls. Her bare feet made soft echoes against the tiled floor as she ventured deeper, drawn by the hum of activity and the faint scent of chemicals.
She stopped in front of a large glass wall, eyes widening slightly as she peered into the room beyond. Dr. Jenkins was hunched over a microscope, his face drawn with fatigue. Petri dishes and vials cluttered the counter, the surface alive with meticulous chaos. Every movement he made was deliberate, tense, almost frenzied, yet precise. Whatever he was working on, it mattered—she could feel it.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Yve knocked lightly on the glass. The sharp tap echoed in the room, startling Jenkins. He looked up, brow furrowed, eyes locking onto hers. His expression flickered between annoyance and surprise as he approached the window.
"What do you need?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled through the barrier, tinged with impatience.
Yve tilted her head, a small, curious smile on her lips. "Can I come in?" she asked softly, her tone light but earnest, brimming with the quiet intensity of someone seeing something fascinating for the first time. Her words blurred slightly against the glass, forcing Jenkins to lean closer, straining to catch them.
"What?" Jenkins barked, stepping closer, straining to hear through the glass.
Yve pressed her fingers lightly against the barrier, tilting her head with that same insistent smile. "I just want to see," she repeated, her gestures punctuating the words—a hand sweeping toward the lab, then back to herself.
Dr. Jenkins's expression hardened instantly. He shook his head firmly. "No. Absolutely not. This isn't a place for sightseeing."
Most people would have accepted that and walked away. Not Yve. Her smile widened, and she pressed her hands lightly against the glass. "Please? I just want to see. I'll be careful, I promise."
Jenkins hesitated. Something in her gaze—innocence, childlike curiosity, and quiet determination—made him falter. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "This is a bad idea," he muttered to himself. But when he looked at her again, her pleading expression was impossible to resist.
"Fine," he said reluctantly. "But don't touch anything. Not a thing. Understood?"
Yve's face lit up, and she nodded eagerly. "Understood."
Jenkins exhaled sharply and stepped toward the door, tapping his ID against the sensor pad. A faint green light flickered; the system powered for only a few seconds to conserve energy. With a metallic click, the lock disengaged. He pushed the heavy door open, hinges groaning in protest. Without a word, he handed Yve a disposable mask, a pair of gloves, and a crinkled hair net, his expression guarded as he watched her gear up.
Once suited, Yve stepped inside. "Remember," Jenkins warned, voice sharp, "don't touch or break anything. And don't distract me."
Yve nodded solemnly, her wide eyes sweeping the room with unrestrained fascination. Despite her promise, her hands twitched with curiosity as she took in the array of tools, vials, and samples spread before her. Jenkins sighed, already second-guessing his decision, though a small part of him couldn't deny the strange energy she brought into the lab. Perhaps this wouldn't be a disaster—so long as she listened. Fat chance, considering who she was.
Jenkins resumed his work, hands deftly adjusting the microscope and scribbling notes, while Yve wandered the room. Her steps were tentative at first, then bolder as her confidence grew. She leaned close to inspect a centrifuge, tilted her head at a row of test tubes filled with mysterious liquids, and lingered over a microscope slide. Everything was so foreign, so human—and she couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and intrigue.
As Yve turned toward another part of the lab, her foot slipped on the polished marble tiles. The floor wasn't wet, but the smooth surface betrayed her balance. She stumbled backward, arms flailing, and collided with a nearby shelf. A cascade of petri dishes clattered to the floor, shattering with a deafening crash.
Yve fell to her knees amidst the wreckage, palms instinctively pressing against the shards. A sharp sting ran through her hands as cuts opened, blood mingling with the spilled samples, some from infected subjects. She gasped softly, wide-eyed and startled.
Jenkins spun around, eyes narrowing at the chaos. "What the hell—" His voice cut off as he took in the scene. He exhaled sharply. "Hang on," he said, guiding her toward the disinfecting area with firm hands. "You shouldn't have been in here. This is exactly why I said no."
Yve's usual brightness dimmed. "I'm sorry," she murmured, guilt weighing in her tone.
"Just… don't talk," Jenkins interrupted, pressing the button to activate the disinfectant mist. The cool spray enveloped her, cleaning the cuts and leaving her hands stinging. She remained silent, absorbing the lesson with quiet shame.
When the process finished, Jenkins opened the door and gestured for her to step out. He retrieved a first aid kit, methodically cleaning her wounds. "You're not coming in here again," he said firmly, tone leaving no room for argument. "This isn't a playground. It's dangerous. I can't afford any more mistakes."
Yve nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. "I understand," she said softly. "I'm sorry for the mess I caused."
Jenkins sighed again, his frustration softening slightly as he finished bandaging her hands. "Be more careful," he said, voice gentler now. "And stay out of the lab."
Yve offered a small, apologetic smile before turning toward the door. As she left, Jenkins exhaled and faced the wreckage, taking in the mess with a tight jaw.
He crouched beside it, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. With long forceps, he gathered the shards of broken petri dishes, each clink echoing in the quiet lab. Disinfectant sprayed over the tiles, the acrid smell filling the air as he scrubbed until the stains dulled.
He worked efficiently, sealing the debris in a clearly marked container, his handwriting sharp as he scrawled BIOHAZARD across the tape. Straightening with a weary sigh, Jenkins flexed his hands inside the damp gloves and muttered under his breath, "There goes my blood, sweat, and tears… down the drain."
He set up a new set of slides on the metal stage, securing a subtle smear onto the glass. Reaching for the microscope's focus knob, he paused, eyes flicking to his hands. "Damn it… didn't even change gloves," he muttered.
A frustrated breath left him. He tore off the contaminated gloves, tossed them into the biohazard bin, and pulled on a fresh pair from the dispenser. Returning to the microscope, jaw clenched and eyes shadowed with fatigue, he leaned in, fingers adjusting the slide with precise, mechanical movements.
As the lens sharpened, something unexpected slid into view—a dark, blurred smear along the lower edge of the glass. Jenkins blinked. That wasn't supposed to be there. He twisted the focus knob again, narrowing the lens onto the smear, eyes sharp, mind racing.
The image snapped into focus—and Jenkins froze.
It wasn't just blood. It was infected blood. At least, it appeared that way—cells darkened, decaying, collapsing in on themselves like scorched paper. But they weren't degrading randomly. They were being dismantled—layer by layer.
By something else.
A second substance coiled through the mess, brighter, cleaner: healthy blood cells. But they weren't drifting passively. They moved with purpose. Flowing into the infected clusters, they surrounded them, and then—
They attacked.
The infected cells, which usually overran and consumed healthy material, were undone. Membranes tore. Nuclei imploded. The infection collapsed, leaving nothing but debris. Jenkins adjusted the magnification, brow furrowed, breath catching as he leaned closer.
The image lingered behind his eyes—the healthy cells hunting with precision, dismantling the infection with an aggression that was deliberate. This wasn't any strain he knew. Not from this sample. Not from any experiment he'd conducted.
He stood abruptly, pacing once before forcing himself to stop. Think.
He retraced every move since the spill. The shattered petri dishes. The infected blood pooling across the floor. Yve, crumpled in the middle of it all, her palms cut open, her blood exposed. And him—lifting her, tending to her hands.
His eyes narrowed. The gloves. He hadn't changed them. Not until after mounting that slide.
He spun toward the biohazard bin, yanking it open. The right glove lay on top, crumpled, a faint dark smear trailing along the finger. He remembered brushing it across the edge of the microscope slide as he adjusted it into place.
It wasn't an official sample. It was residue. His pulse quickened. That blood… it had to be hers.
Hands moving on instinct, protocol abandoned, he snatched the glove and returned to the microscope. He removed the current slide and, without disinfecting the lens, laid the glove flat beneath the objective.
"It can't be," he whispered, fingers trembling as he adjusted the focus knob.
The lens sharpened. First, the terrain of latex ridges and folds came into view. Then the smear: a rust-dark streak with threads of deeper black curling through it. He twisted the focus again, inching closer until the cells bloomed into view.
Chaos unfolded beneath the lens. And there it was—what he had seen just seconds before.
Then realization hit. Every sample in the shattered dishes had come from infected subjects. Every vial. Every slide. No untainted blood had spilled.
Except—
His chest tightened. Yve.
He looked at the glove again, then back to the lens, as if the microscope could confirm what his mind already knew.
No human he'd encountered had ever demonstrated this kind of resilience—not against a virus this aggressive, this destructive. The discovery was monumental. If Yve's blood could neutralize the infection, even in a chaotic mixture, it could be something he'd chased for years: a cure, or at least a way to slow or halt the spread. But why her? How?
"Impossible," Jenkins muttered under his breath. And yet, the evidence before him left no room for doubt. He had to dig deeper.
Driven by the need to confirm—or disprove—his findings, he grabbed a syringe and rolled up his sleeve. The needle pricked his skin, barely registering as he drew a sample of his own blood. Carefully, he added a few drops to a clean petri dish containing infected blood: controlled, sterilized, untainted.
Under the microscope, the reaction was instantaneous. The infected cells surged, attacking his healthy blood with relentless aggression. His red cells, normal by every biological measure, disintegrated one by one, consumed within seconds.
Jenkins ran a hand through his hair, brow furrowed. His blood had no chance. None. The implications were staggering. "This doesn't make sense," he whispered, though deep down he knew it did—just not in any way he could explain.
An hour passed in a blur, the slide replaying the same unprecedented event over and over. He couldn't leave it alone. He had to know the truth.
A plan formed. Jenkins gathered his equipment: syringes, sterilized tubes, labels. He moved to the common area where the group had gathered, chatting quietly or completing routine tasks.
Clearing his throat, he assumed the calm authority that usually quelled questions. "I need to collect blood samples," he announced, measured and professional. "It's important to monitor everyone's health, especially with the… unique challenges we face."
No one hesitated. He was the doctor. Lucas nodded first, rolling up his sleeve. "Makes sense," he said. The others followed suit, their trust in Jenkins outweighing curiosity.
Methodically, Jenkins collected samples from each person, labeling the tubes with precision, his mind already turning over what he had just witnessed.
As Jenkins worked, his demeanor remained calm, methodical. Beneath it, his pulse raced. He moved through the group with deliberate patience, waiting for Yve's turn.
When it came, he approached her with the same professional detachment he'd shown the others. "Your turn," he said, gesturing to the chair.
Yve smiled and offered her arm without hesitation. "Of course," she said, curiosity threading her melodic voice. "Anything to help."
Jenkins nodded. His hands were steady as he drew her blood. He labeled the vial with care and set it among the others on the tray. To anyone watching, it was routine. To him, the small tube of crimson might confirm the impossible.
Dylan's gaze flicked to Yve, settling on the bandage wrapped around her palm. He tipped his chin toward it. "What'd you do?"
She followed his look, fingers brushing the linen. "I cut myself," she said simply. "Jenkins treated it."
Dylan's eyes narrowed, mouth tightening. "Ain't the best week to be bleedin'." He shifted his weight, voice low. "Gotta be more careful next time."
She dipped her head. "I will."
A brief silence followed, quiet but easy. Then Yve looked up at him. "Where are you going?"
He adjusted the strap again. "Me, Ethan, Lara, and Maurice—we're headin' out. Scavenge what we can 'fore the rain hits."
Yve's expression softened slightly. "Be careful."
Dylan gave her a short nod, then turned his head, voice rough and sharp as it carried down the corridor. "Y'all powderin' yourselves up? Move, already!"
Boots thudded on the floor. Ethan and Lara appeared first, shrugging into weather-beaten jackets, followed by Maurice with his backpack half-zipped and a crowbar strapped to his side. "We comin', man," Maurice grumbled, tugging the strap tighter across his chest.
Dylan didn't wait. He led them down the lobby toward the small metallic door.
Back in the sterile, dimly lit lab, Jenkins worked with precision. He added a drop of infected blood to a clean slide, then carefully pipetted a few drops of Yve's blood onto it. Placing the slide under the microscope, he adjusted the focus, expecting the familiar decay, the predictable destruction of healthy cells.
But his breath caught.
Her blood reacted exactly as it had before. The infected cells faltered, unable to defend themselves. Zooming in, he watched the microscopic battle unfold. Yve's blood didn't just resist; it attacked. It seemed almost aware, targeting the virus with precision, dismantling it cell by cell. He'd never seen anything like it.
Steadying his thoughts, Jenkins grabbed a clipboard, documenting every detail. An idea began to take shape, he needed to see her blood alone, without any interference, to understand what made it so anomalous.
Rising from his chair, urgency driving him, he retrieved the tube of Yve's blood. Carefully, he pipetted a few drops onto a clean petri dish, set it under the microscope, and adjusted the focus once more.
As he zoomed in, Yve's blood cells were unlike anything he had seen. Larger than normal, their membranes thick and almost gooey, they shimmered with an iridescent sheen under the microscope's light.
He documented every detail. Each observation pressed heavier on his mind. Could this be humanity's salvation, or something uncontrollable? The questions hovered, unanswered.
Setting the notes aside, Jenkins turned to the remaining tube. The centrifuge sat silent; its power draw too costly. He exhaled sharply and scavenged scraps of stiff paper, string, and tape.
On the bench, he cut the paper into a disc, threaded the string through the center, reinforced the edges, and fashioned narrow slots along the rim. Sliding a capillary tube into place, he secured it with tape.
He spun the contraption with practiced rhythm. Slow at first, then faster, strings coiling and uncoiling. Minutes passed, arms burning, until the blood separated: red cells at the bottom, plasma shimmering at the top, and a pale line of white in between.
Jenkins stared. Primitive, improvised—and it worked. He placed the slide with Yve's white blood cells under the microscope.
They weren't calm, passive cells like the human immune system. Jagged and irregular in shape, they moved with purpose. They didn't wait for an invader, they hunted.
Even without a visible threat, her WBCs moved with relentless purpose. They darted across the field of view with predatory precision, shifting shape as if adapting in real time. Tiny tendrils probed the space around them, searching for any potential adversary. These cells did not react. They hunted.
"What the fuck?" Jenkins muttered, awe and unease in his voice. He documented every detail. Her immune system was not just different. It was revolutionary.
He turned to the plasma layer in the tube. Translucent and faintly shimmering, it was denser and almost luminous. Human plasma was pale and watery. Yve's carried an energy beyond explanation.
Plasma normally transported nutrients, hormones, and waste and helped repair cells. Yve's was different. Nutrients, amino acids, vitamins, and minerals flowed at levels far above normal, feeding her cells with a surplus.
Then Jenkins noticed something new. Tiny glowing structures floated in the plasma. Small, shimmering orbs with delicate filaments, pulsing subtly as if alive. He guessed they were specialized healing agents, proteins or enzymes repairing damage faster than human biology allowed.
Jenkins's curiosity deepened as he documented his observations. "This isn't just plasma," he muttered. "It's alive. It fights for her, like it's part of something greater." He tapped his pen against the clipboard, thinking through the implications. After a year of dead ends, a spark of hope stirred in his chest.