The sun peeked through the blinds of Raine's bedroom window, strips of light cutting across the pale blue walls and the corner where a dusty upright piano sat, unused for years. Hand-drawn sketches were taped beside posters of space, anatomy charts, and old black-and-white war photos. A framed picture hung just above her desk — Raine as a little girl, standing tall in oversized fatigues beside her father, both saluting. Another photo below it showed all three: her mother, father, and herself, all in uniform, with her mother's smile barely hiding the exhaustion in her eyes.
Raine rose from bed slowly. Her long, dark hair tangled and dull, eyes rimmed with tired shadows. She stood before the mirror for a while, silent.
Then, almost too softly to be heard, she said, "Mom would hate this look. Hair a mess... eyes like hers when she came back late. She always hated when I looked tired. Said I was wasting the day."
She didn't say anything else. She just grabbed a brush, fixed her hair, and got dressed — jeans, her black hoodie, boots. The usual. Her expression didn't change as she moved, deliberate and quiet.
Downstairs, the house was still. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint click of the wall clock. On the table sat a note in her father's blocky handwriting:
Called back in. Don't wait up. Lock the door behind you. — Dad
Raine picked it up, stared at it. "He could've at least made breakfast," she muttered, half-smiling.
She made her own — scrambled eggs and toast. As she cracked the eggs, her thoughts wandered.
Two years.
That's how long it had been since her mother died. Raine never really talked about it. She didn't cry much. She just... got quiet. Her mom had been a combat medic, one of the best. Taught Raine how to patch wounds and tie tourniquets before she was ten. Told her stories about saving lives in warzones like they were fairy tales.
The silence of the house was louder without her.
As Raine stirred the eggs, her mind painted old memories — her mother humming as she cooked, flipping pancakes with a practiced flick. Her voice calm, even when Raine dropped the spatula.
Then the memory faded. Just like that.
Raine finished cooking and sat down with her plate, but before she could take a bite, her phone buzzed.
Jace: Hey, I can't walk with you today. Something came up. I'll see you at school though.
The message preview lit up her screen. She didn't open it. Just stared for a second, then put the phone face-down and took a bite of her toast.
The TV in the corner was still on, flickering images from a news broadcast. She hadn't noticed it until now.
"...and while initial trials showed promising results, the FDA has ordered a full review of all Theravax shipments nationwide. Several distribution sites have been placed on lockdown while officials investigate."
Raine blinked.
Theravax.
She'd heard about it. Everyone had. The miracle antiviral, the one that supposedly strengthened immune response and attacked everything from HIV to influenza. Created by a startup of university students and bioengineers, then refined by government and pharmaceutical giants. They said it could change everything.
Now, it was on hold.
"They're saying users experienced hallucinations and violent behavior," the anchor was saying, her voice tight. "And in one incident—"
Raine got up and clicked the TV off.
A moment before the screen went black, a man sprinted into view of the live camera feed. Wild-eyed. Bloody. Screaming something about the drug.
She didn't see it.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The sun was rising. Two more days of school.
Just two more days, she thought. Just two more.