CHAPTER FIVE

I slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a stop, and my seat belt dug into my shoulder, but I didn't care..

My eyes remained fixed on the small figure beneath the flickering streetlight. It was a little girl.

“Mika?” Her name escaped my lips before I could think.

For one impossible moment, everything else disappeared. The construction projects, the approaching apocalypse, the exhaustion weighing on my body but none of it mattered. All I could see was the child whose death had haunted me for two years.

I was certain it was her. I recognized her small frame and the familiar shape of her hair. In my first life, I had carried her on my back through streets crawling with rogues, promising to get her somewhere safe. Now she was standing beside a bus stop, seemingly unharmed.

My hands trembled as I released my seat belt.

“Mika!”

I threw open the car door and hurried toward her, barely remembering to check the road before crossing. But by the time I reached the bus stop, she was gone.

I stopped beneath the streetlight and stared at the empty space where she had been. A discarded plastic bag rolled along the gutter, pushed by the evening breeze. Across the road, a shopkeeper was pulling down his shutters, but there was no sign of the little girl.

I searched behind the shelter and hurried into the narrow passage beside a nearby building.

“Mika? Sweetheart, where are you?”

But there was no answer. Desperate, I approached the shopkeeper.

“Excuse me. Did you see a little girl standing by that bus stop?”

He glanced toward the shelter. “No, sorry. I've been closing up for the past few minutes.”

“Are you sure? She couldn't have gone far.”

He shook his head, and I reluctantly thanked him.

I checked the nearby alley and searched around the parked vehicles, calling her name until my throat tightened. There was nothing. Eventually, I returned to my car and sank into the driver's seat, my heart still racing.

Had I imagined her?

The thought made my stomach twist. I knew my second life was real. I saw Nana again, held her, and listened to her voice. Yet exhaustion had followed me for days, and perhaps my mind had conjured Mika from memories I couldn't escape.

Still, I couldn't shake the certainty that I had recognized her. If it had truly been Mika, then she was alive. Somewhere in this city, the little girl I had failed to save was living her life, unaware of what lay ahead.

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. “Please be alive,” I whispered.

I didn't know where she lived or who cared for her, but I wasn't going to dismiss what I had seen. The next time our paths crossed, I would make sure I reached her before she disappeared.

With one last glance at the bus stop, I started the engine and drove home.

---

The following week passed in a blur of phone calls, paperwork, and planning.

Every morning brought new messages from Claire Norris about the renovation teams and from Mr. Ayes regarding property documents and approvals. The primary estate had undergone its initial assessment, and preparations for reinforcing the buildings and securing the grounds were underway. The other two properties were being evaluated separately so their renovation work could proceed alongside the main project.

I reviewed every estimate carefully. Decorative improvements could wait; structural security, reliable water supplies, backup power, and storage mattered far more.

At the same time, I had to keep my business running. Steele Digital Solutions provided branding, digital marketing, and online business services to clients across several industries.

I had built it long before my marriage, and it had become a reliable source of income. With most of my employees working remotely and my operations manager handling the daily routine, I could supervise the company from home while managing the renovations.

Even so, I couldn't afford to spend carelessly. Securing three properties and preparing for an apocalypse would consume money quickly, and I still had several essential needs to address. The next important thing was transportation.

A fortified estate would be useless if we couldn't reach it safely or leave when necessary. I needed a dependable vehicle for everyday movement, a utility vehicle for transporting supplies, and another that could carry Nana comfortably if we had to evacuate in a hurry.

Fuel required just as much planning. I would need petrol for the vehicles, suitable generators for the properties, and safe storage arrangements that wouldn't put everyone at risk.

During the first apocalypse, I had watched survivors fight over abandoned vehicles and whatever fuel remained in them. Some had food but no way to reach safety. Others had shelter but couldn't transport the injured when their hiding places were compromised.

I wasn't going to make the same mistakes.

I opened a spreadsheet and listed the vehicles and equipment I needed, prioritizing reliability over appearance. They had to carry people and supplies, handle rough roads, and remain useful when repair services became difficult to find. I then contacted two dealers to ask about suitable options.

Once the renovation teams confirmed the available storage areas, I would begin purchasing food, medicine, tools, protective equipment, and other necessities in stages. Each property would need its own inventory so I could keep track of what was available and where.

The workload was overwhelming at times, but I preferred it to the helplessness I remembered. Every decision brought me one step closer to giving Nana and myself a chance to survive.

I only wished I knew how much time we had left.

---

One afternoon, I sat in the living room with my laptop open, reviewing a delivery estimate while the television played quietly in the background. Nana was resting upstairs, and I barely paid attention to the news until the presenter mentioned a pharmaceutical company.

“Helixor Biotech has announced the upcoming launch of its new immune-response treatment, Virellon, which the company describes as a major advancement in protection against severe viral illness. The treatment will initially be introduced through selected medical facilities before distribution expands nationwide.”

My fingers froze above the keyboard. Slowly, I turned toward the screen.

A polished advertisement followed, showing smiling doctors, recovering patients, and families embracing. The company's spokesperson spoke confidently about years of research and the promise of a safer future.

Virellon.

I knew that name.

In my first life, its launch had been welcomed as a breakthrough. People were desperate for protection against dangerous illnesses, and the promise of a new treatment had given them hope.

Then the first reports emerged. Patients developed dangerously high fevers. Some became confused and agitated, while others suffered violent episodes that medical staff struggled to explain.

The incidents were initially dismissed as unrelated medical conditions or individual reactions. Helixor denied any connection, and officials assured the public that the reports were being investigated. But the cases multiplied.

Then came the transformations. I remembered the disturbing footage that had circulated online before authorities began removing it. A man had been admitted to a hospital with a severe fever. His family believed he was suffering from a terrible reaction to the treatment.

Hours later, his body convulsed violently. He looked so different and unbelievable, he looked like a werewolf. His fingers lengthened into claws, his jaw twisted out of shape, and dark hair spread across his skin. When his eyes turned an unnatural amber, the medical staff tried to restrain him and he attacked them.

At first, people called the footage fake. Werewolves belonged in ancient legends and stories told to frighten children. They weren't supposed to exist in modern cities.

Then similar cases began appearing elsewhere.

Some victims transformed over several hours; others changed much faster. Their bodies grew stronger, their senses sharpened, and their aggression became increasingly difficult to control. Whatever remained of their humanity seemed to disappear beneath an overwhelming instinct to hunt.

Eventually, survivors gave them a name. They called them Rogues. I remembered the terror of hearing that word shouted through a crowded shelter.

“Rogues are coming! Lock the doors!”

Back then, I hadn't understood what we were facing. I had imagined ordinary infected people, sick and dangerous but still recognizably human but I had been horribly wrong.

These creatures could tear through flesh with their claws and hunt by sound and scent. Some ran on two legs; others dropped to all fours when pursuing their prey. Once they found people, escaping them became a nightmare.

Hospitals descended into chaos as patients attacked medical staff and frightened families fled into crowded streets. The danger spread while officials continued insisting the situation was under control. By the time the connection between Virellon and the outbreak became impossible to ignore, the damage was already done.

Even after everything I had witnessed, I had never discovered the complete truth. Records disappeared, official explanations changed, and conflicting reports offered no clear answers. I couldn't say with certainty whether the treatment carried the infection, triggered something already present, or was connected to a larger failure no one had understood.

But I remembered what followed its launch. It started with fever then the violence and they eventually evolved into monsters. And the collapse of the world we had known.

I pushed back from the table so abruptly that my chair scraped across the floor.

“No,” I whispered.

The spokesperson was still smiling on the screen, assuring viewers that Virellon represented a promising step forward in medical care.

But I could barely hear him. I had spent the past week securing properties, calculating expenses, and arranging everything Nana and I might need. I had focused so heavily on building a safe place that I hadn't considered how close the first warning might already be.

People would trust the treatment. Hospitals would administer it, families would believe the promises, and anyone who questioned its safety would be dismissed as a troublemaker.

Then the first patients would develop fevers. Some would become violent. Others would transform into creatures that people had once believed existed only in myths.

I glanced at my laptop.

July 22, 2050.

Less than two months remained before the apocalypse I remembered.

My gaze returned to the television. The company's logo still occupied the corner of the screen, and the announcement sounded just as reassuring as it had in my first life.

I remembered how quickly fear had spread once the first transformations became public. I remembered the desperate crowds, the overwhelmed hospitals, and the bloodshed that followed when the rogues began hunting people.

And now Virellon was being introduced again. It was the same treatment and the same promises as I recalled.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the laptop. I had believed that knowing when the apocalypse would begin gave me an advantage. Two months had seemed like enough time to secure the properties, gather supplies, and protect the people I loved.

But what if I had misunderstood how much time I had?

I stared at the television, my heart pounding as a cold realization settled over me.

If Virellon was being launched again, it could only mean one thing.