The room stayed quiet longer than it should have.
Not the clean, clinical quiet of recovery—but the fragile kind, stretched thin and trembling, like a held breath that no one dared release. Evan lay motionless now, small against the bed that had swallowed him whole. The restraints were still fastened at his wrists and ankles, unnecessary in death, but no one reached to loosen them.
Not yet.
The foam at his mouth had slowed, thick bubbles clinging stubbornly to his lips and chin, like something that didn't know it was supposed to stop. His chest rose once—then didn't. The monitors continued their relentless scream until Sharon reached up and silenced them, her fingers steady even as her hands shook.
The sudden absence of sound was worse.
Sharon stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her shoulders were rigid, locked in place by something heavier than grief. If she moved—if she let herself bend—she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand again.
Nguyen wiped at her face, tears streaking down unchecked. "I'll… I'll confirm," she said, though her voice broke halfway through.
She stepped closer, fingers trembling as she checked Evan's neck, then his wrist. She waited longer than protocol required, like she was hoping time itself might change its mind.
Nothing.
Nguyen shook her head once. "No pulse."
Patel swallowed hard. "Time?"
Sharon answered without looking away. "Mark it."
Patel wrote it down, his pen scratching too loudly in the quiet room.
For a few seconds, they didn't look at Evan as a subject or a specimen.
They looked at him as a boy.
As someone who had been scared and confused and brave in ways no child should ever have to be.
Reyes exhaled shakily. "God… he was asking about his sister."
McAllister turned his face away, jaw clenched. "This shouldn't be happening."
"No," Sharon said quietly. "It shouldn't."
She reached out and gently wiped the foam from Evan's chin with a cloth, her touch careful, almost reverent. His skin was still warm.
Too warm.
That thought lodged somewhere sharp in her chest, but she pushed it aside.
"Okay," Sharon said, her voice changing. Hardening. "We proceed."
Nguyen looked up, eyes red. "Now?"
"Yes," Sharon replied. "Before anything else does."
They moved with purpose now, grief pushed back just far enough to make room for function. Gloves snapped into place. Trays were wheeled closer. Vials were lined up, labels waiting.
Patel adjusted the overhead light. "We start with postmortem blood draw and CSF confirmation."
"And oral samples," Sharon added. "Saliva, tongue tissue."
Reyes nodded. "Hair and nails too?"
"Yes," Sharon said. "Everything."
McAllister checked the restraints again, tightening one strap absently. "He's… not moving," he said, almost like he needed to convince himself.
Sharon didn't respond.
Nguyen prepared the needle, her hands steadying as muscle memory took over. She slid it carefully into Evan's vein.
Blood flowed.
Not sluggish now.
Fast.
Too fast.
Nguyen frowned. "That's… not right."
The vial filled quicker than expected, the blood darker than before, almost syrupy—but it moved with intent, as if pressure was forcing it out.
Patel leaned in. "It shouldn't be circulating."
"It shouldn't be doing anything," Reyes whispered.
Sharon felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"Cap it," she said. "Move on."
Nguyen capped the vial and reached for another. They worked down the list—saliva swabs, nail clippings, hair samples. Evan remained still through all of it, his face slack, lashes resting against his cheeks.
Too peaceful.
McAllister leaned over to check Evan's pupils out of habit.
They were dilated.
But not fixed.
His brow furrowed slightly.
"Sharon," he said slowly. "Take a look at this."
She stepped closer, irritation flickering. "McAllister, he's—"
Evan inhaled.
It wasn't a breath.
It was a pull.
Air rushed into his lungs with a wet, rattling sound, like fluid being dragged through a clogged pipe.
Nguyen screamed.
Evan's body arched violently against the restraints, head snapping back as his mouth opened wide in a soundless snarl. Foam surged fresh from his lips, thick and pink-tinged now, bubbling as his jaw worked.
The monitors—still connected—came alive in a chaotic burst of noise.
"WHAT THE—" Patel shouted.
"BACK!" Sharon yelled. "EVERYONE BACK!"
Evan's eyes flew open.
They were wrong.
Not unfocused. Not confused.
They locked onto movement with predatory precision.
He lunged as far as the restraints allowed, teeth snapping violently, head jerking side to side. The straps held—but barely—cutting into his skin as his body strained against them.
Reyes stumbled backward, slamming into the instrument table. Vials rattled and tipped, one shattering on the floor.
Nguyen froze, shock locking her in place as Evan's arm jerked hard against the restraint, veins standing out like cords beneath his skin.
"Nguyen, MOVE!" Sharon screamed.
Nguyen reacted too late.
As she spun, her elbow clipped the tray. A syringe rolled, bounced once—
—and stuck.
The needle sank into the side of her wrist.
She gasped sharply, more surprised than anything.
Then she looked down.
Blood welled instantly around the puncture.
The room went silent again.
Not fragile this time.
Horrified.
Nguyen's eyes widened. "I—I didn't—"
"DROP IT," Sharon barked. "DROP EVERYTHING AND BACK AWAY."
Nguyen ripped the glove off her hand, trembling. "It stuck me," she whispered. "It stuck me."
Evan roared.
A full, animal sound tore from his throat as he strained harder, restraints groaning under the force. One strap began to fray, threads snapping audibly.
McAllister grabbed the sedative gun. "He's breaking free!"
"HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ALIVE," Reyes shouted.
Sharon moved fast.
She slammed the emergency lock, sealing the room. Red lights flared. Silent alarms began to flash.
"Nguyen," Sharon said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "Look at me."
Nguyen did, shaking violently.
"You're going into isolation," Sharon said. "Now."
Nguyen's breath came in panicked gasps. "Sharon—what if—"
"We don't know yet," Sharon cut in. "And that's the point."
Behind them, Evan bucked again, the bed frame slamming against the floor as something deep and furious tore its way up through his chest.
The boy was gone.
Whatever had taken his place was not.
Sharon didn't look back at him.
She couldn't.
She watched Nguyen retreat toward the containment door, blood dripping onto the floor in bright, terrible drops.
Behind the glass, Evan screamed and screamed, teeth snapping, body thrashing, the sound of restraints failing one by one echoing like gunshots.
And somewhere deep in the building, the dead began to answer.