Chapter 1

In the heart of Super City District 19, the night was as bright as day. Even at midnight, the streets buzzed with people, neon lights flickered, and the noise never stopped.

A small van slowly drove into the parking lot of the Microbiology Lab in District 19. The driver was a bearded janitor in his thirties named Jack. He didn't get out immediately; instead, he leaned back in his seat, lit a cigarette, and let the nicotine wake him up. Still drowsy, he yawned before pushing his cleaning cart and swiping his card to enter the lab's disinfection tunnel.

By regulation, passing through the tunnel required two people—one inside getting disinfected and the other operating the equipment outside. However, staff shortages were common. Today, his partner had taken leave, leaving Jack to work alone. He swiped his card and said a few words to the security camera. Without looking up, the young guard glanced at the screen and pressed a button to open the tunnel door. Jack dragged his tired body straight to the rooftop platform of the lab.

Jack had been working for twelve consecutive hours. He could have gone home, but he chose to work overtime to earn extra money. The weight of family responsibilities left him no choice.

The rooftop exhaust pipes stretched out into the night like a row of silent, giant snakes opening their mouths toward the brightly lit city center. He opened a metal control box, turned off the fan, and carefully climbed to the top of an exhaust pipe. The safety light above flashed a cold blue, reflecting off his sweaty rubber gloves.

He removed the old filter without noticing the unusual black particles clinging to it in the dark. No matter how hard he tried, the new filter wouldn't fit.

"Cheap contractors," Jack muttered, swearing quietly as he struggled to fix the angle.

He considered calling his manager to complain but remembered the last time he had been yelled at, so he didn't bother. The manager was probably in league with the suppliers—playing dumb as usual. Suddenly, his phone rang, its jarring tone grating on his nerves.

Startled, he almost slipped off the ladder. He removed his gloves and answered the call.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently.

It was Melissa, her tone sharp as she began scolding him for something again.

"Melissa, can you stop complaining? I'm trying to make money, or else we'd be starving," Jack snapped, his anger rising and his tone growing aggressive.

Holding the phone in one hand, he absentmindedly rubbed the old filter with the other. Tiny black particles stuck to his sweaty skin, seeping into a shallow cut.

The argument ended with Jack angrily hanging up. He took a deep breath, shoved his phone into his pocket, and half-heartedly screwed in the filter—planning to replace it with a proper one the next day.

After passing through the isolation wash area, he greeted the security guard as usual before leaving the lab. There is no wash through the canal again for his convenience. He wiped his hands on his pants, unaware that invisible particles had already contaminated his uniform. He got into his car, grabbed a vodka bottle from under the seat, took a sip, and slammed the gas pedal. The car roared into the night.

After Jack left, the tunnel fell silent. The new filter, tilted halfway off at the entrance, allowed a faint light to illuminate the black particles slowly drifting into the air—they were far from peaceful.

With the janitor gone, the lab returned to silence. Yet under the lights, the black spores in the petri dish seemed to feel the call of freedom, beginning to stir restlessly.

A disaster is often the result of many small mistakes accumulating.

The next day, the staff didn't bother to carefully check the repair records from the night before. Jack remembered to report the issue to the manager only two days later. When the manager heard about it, he felt uneasy and called the department leader in charge of the equipment. After being scolded a couple of times, he pushed the matter aside and forgot about it.

Over the next week, as the fan kept spinning, tiny black particles stirred in the air—gathering along the edge of the filter before scattering like mischievous little spirits. They floated silently down the passageway, drifting further and further away. The spores were carried by the air, slipping through unguarded pipes and forming an invisible current that silently made its way toward the city center. They twirled in the breeze as if searching for a new home.

Under the dim glow of the streetlights, the spores' movement became faintly visible—a ghostly dance from another world, eerie and mysterious. Suddenly, the sharp wail of police sirens tore through the night, with flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the buildings. The noise startled a group of crows, sending them flapping into the sky. Something unseen, something dangerous, was lurking in the shadows.

In a dimly lit living room, Jack sat on the couch, staring blankly at the television screen. The news anchor's voice sounded distant and broken, as if the words were being swallowed by something unseen. He rubbed his temples—lately, he hadn't been feeling right. It was as if something was quietly changing inside him.

The first thing to go was his sense of taste. Food became bland and lifeless. Even his favorite smoked steak tasted like dry cardboard. He gulped down vodka, but the usual burning sensation was gone; only a faint bitterness lingered on his tongue. Frowning, he took another sip—still no warmth, no familiar sting.

Then his sense of smell changed. A strange scent filled the air—not just mold or dust, but a faint metallic tang. It was thick and sickly sweet, like blood left too long in the open air. He glanced around. Everything in the living room looked normal, but the smell wouldn't go away; if anything, it was growing stronger. He took a deep breath, unease creeping into his chest.

Next came his hearing. The children upstairs had stopped playing. Their breathing sounded heavy, as if their lungs were full of wet, sticky mud. Their whispers were broken, halting, almost… unnatural. Sometimes, Jack wasn't even sure they were speaking a human language—it was more like they were murmuring something foreign, something that didn't belong to this world.

Jack tried to shake off the feeling. He looked down at his bulldog, Parker, and ran his fingers through the thick fur on the dog's head, expecting the usual warmth and contented grunts. But Parker didn't react.

The dog stood stiff and rigid, every muscle tense. His fur bristled, and his black nose twitched as if picking up a scent—something unseen, something dangerous. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat as he fixed his gaze on the living room doorway.

Jack's spine tingled with cold as he followed Parker's stare. Outside the door, the weak glow of a streetlamp cast faint shadows. Everything seemed normal—except that the metallic scent in the air had grown even stronger.

"What's wrong, buddy?" Jack forced his voice to remain calm as he gently patted Parker on the back.

But Parker didn't relax. His pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks, and the growl in his throat deepened into something raw and feral, like an animal backed into a corner. Then, in a flash, Parker whipped around. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Jack; his pupils dilated, his mouth hung open, and thick saliva dripped from his fangs. His breathing became heavy and ragged.

"Parker?" Jack's heart skipped a beat. His instincts screamed at him to back away, but his body remained frozen.

In the next instant, Parker lunged. With a terrifying speed Jack had never known the dog possessed, Parker launched forward like an arrow, sinking his teeth deep into Jack's arm.

"AHHH!!"

Searing pain exploded through Jack's body as he stumbled backward, crashing into the table behind him. Glasses and magazines scattered to the floor. He struggled, slamming his free hand against Parker's head, but the dog wouldn't let go.

Blood poured from the torn flesh, dripping onto the floor in dark red splatters. Parker's fangs were buried deep, and his eyes were wild with madness.

"HELP! MELISSA!" Jack screamed, his voice shaking with terror.

Then, soft footsteps approached from the stairs.

Jack gritted his teeth against the pain and looked up. His wife, Melissa, was slowly walking down. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, yet her face was unnaturally pale. Her eyes were dull and lifeless, though a strange smile curled at her lips.

"Ja…" she murmured hoarsely, her voice rough—as if something had scraped against her throat.

Jack's heart clenched. In her hand, she clutched a slab of raw, bloody meat, with red juices dripping from her fingertips and splattering onto the floor. Slowly, she lifted the meat as if it were something precious—then took a bite. Her teeth sank into the flesh, tearing it apart. Blood and fluids trickled down her chin, but she didn't seem to notice; instead, her expression was one of pure satisfaction.

"Daddy…" a small, childlike voice called from the top of the stairs.

Jack stiffly turned his head. His four children stood at the landing, their little faces smeared with crimson. Each held a piece of raw meat, still clinging to bits of bone, and their pitch-black eyes stared at him.

"You… what are you doing?" Jack managed to whisper.

Melissa and the children did not answer. They only watched him in eerie silence, continuing to chew. The wet crunch of teeth gnawing on bone echoed through the deathly quiet living room.

Finally, Parker released Jack's arm. The dog let out a low, guttural growl and licked the blood from his mouth as if savoring the taste. Jack's breathing turned ragged, his heart pounding violently in his chest, as panic and fear consumed him whole.

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