Edward woke to silence so complete it seemed artificial—like a vacuum that had settled the house overnight. The couch creaked when he sat up, stiff-necked and cold, still clad in the flannel he'd pulled off the back of the chair.
The ache in his shoulder was the first thing he noticed. Not sharp, but internal. As if something had grown roots under the skin, and now it was just. waiting.
He entered the bathroom, unwrapped the bandage at the sink. It tugged on the edge where the scab had started to form. The flesh around the bite was mottled now—purple-gray shadows seeping beneath the surface, darker than yesterday. Not spreading fast. But not the same, either.
He washed it gently, not letting himself jerk. Then rewrapped it and did not look again.
Seven to fourteen days. Sam changed on Day Nine. It's only Day Two.
Still within the window. Still normal. Still safe.
The TV in the living room remained on from last night, volume turned down. Edward didn't need the sounds to know it was bleak. The pictures did the job: riot footage of the cities, flames climbing between skyscrapers, glimpses of gunfire caught on handheld shots. Another warning crawl at the bottom.
CDC REWRITES TIMELINE GUIDELINES. PRESUMPTIVE FAST-ACTING STRAIN DEFINED IN REGIONAL CLUSTERS. AVOID CLOSENESS. SELF-ISOLATE IMMEDIATELY IF EXPOSED.
He glared at the screen, his own face visible briefly in the glass. Then, as if choreographed, the phone vibrated.
Kyle.
Edward gazed at the name for a beat too long before responding.
"Hey."
"Morning," Kyle replied. "Just calling to check in. You coping okay?"
"Yeah," said Edward. "Hanging in."
Kyle sighed—tired, flat. "Good. Things are going down out here. We lost half the test sites. A field station upstate was overrun last night. That's where they had Sam enrolled."
Edward stiffened.
"Did she come with you?"
"No. Kyle, you took her out last night, didn't you?"
A silence.
"Right," Kyle said. "Sorry. Not sleeping well."
Edward took a deep breath. "Is she okay?"
"She's stable. Still no escalation. Low responsiveness, some confusion, but nothing aggressive since… that night.".
Edward winced.
"She said anything?"
"No. Not much. Keeps asking for you, though."
There was an extended silence between them.
Then the voice of Kyle came through, deeper. "Listen, I have to ask. Because she was with you… Did she ever have any contact with anyone else? Anyone come by, or did you leave the house?"
Edward shook his head before he could respond. "No. I've been locked up since the alert. No contact but her."
Kyle didn't sound suspicious—just methodical. Professional.
"Good. That's good. We're seeing a few odd cases come in—second-generation exposures acting faster, skipping the typical symptom window. Early aggression, faster cellular drift. It's still fringe, but the models are. concerning."
Edward felt the back of his throat tighten.
"What kind of timeline?"
"Four to six days, possibly sooner. But again—it's not usual. The primary strain is still slow. If you didn't notice anything in the first 24 hours, you're likely in the clear."
Edward clutched the edge of the counter, out of line of sight for the phone.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That's good."
Kyle's voice changed—almost relaxed. "You feeling all right?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
"You should eat."
"Trying."
A beat.
"Listen," Kyle instructed him. "If something does change—any little—don't sit on it. Don't wait. Call me. Nobody's gonna judge you. We're all flying blind out here."
Edward's mouth was dry. He swallowed before he answered.
"Yeah. I will."
Kyle paused on the phone. "You're not keeping something from me, are you?"
Edward paused—just a beat too long.
"No," he said. "You'd be the first to know."
It was true. Mostly.
Kyle didn't push. "Alright. Radio silence from here on, except in case of emergency. I'll ping again in 48 hours if networks are still up. Watch yourself, Ed."
"Yeah. You too."
The line clicked dead.
Edward was again alone in the kitchen, the silence more deafening now. He stared down at the phone in his hand. The screen faded, then went black.
He walked slowly through the house, checked the windows, the front door. All still shut. Still unbroken. The street outside remained empty—but the sky had turned the wrong yellow, and the clouds were leaden as bruises.
He stood in front of the hallway mirror again before the sun went down.
This time he didn't even attempt to make himself pretend it was to check the dressing.
He hesitated, then slowly eased his shirt up, pinched two fingers to the edge of the bite.
The skin was warmer now. Pulsing slightly. Like something beneath had caught and begun to stir.
His breath was stuck in his throat.
He stared at himself.
And murmured, not believing, "Still me."
Then waited.