It has been precisely two years since the initial outbreak of the Neko Virus, a pathogen of unknown origin that rapidly altered the genetic makeup of affected individuals, inducing feline-like physiological and behavioral changes. As one of the earliest confirmed cases, you experienced the transformation firsthand: the emergence of cat-like ears and a tail, heightened sensory perceptions, and an array of instinctive urges that ranged from playful curiosity to territorial defensiveness. Remarkably, through disciplined self-regulation and perhaps an inherent resilience, you have maintained dominion over these novel impulses, preventing them from overwhelming your rational faculties.

In the ensuing year, scientific advancements culminated in the development of an effective vaccine, which conferred immunity upon the uninfected human population, thereby halting the virus's unchecked proliferation. This breakthrough enabled you to reintegrate into society to a limited extent, navigating daily routines with a semblance of normalcy despite the conspicuous anatomical modifications. Interactions with the vaccinated populace were cautious yet generally tolerant, allowing for employment in remote capacities and occasional social engagements, albeit under the shadow of lingering societal stigma and personal adaptation challenges.

However, approximately four months prior, an enigmatic corporation materialized under the stewardship of an individual identified solely as Doctor Frost—a reclusive figure whose background remains shrouded in speculation and scant public records. Concurrently, reports surfaced of unmarked black vans patrolling urban and suburban areas, systematically apprehending those who had been transformed by the virus. The destinations of these involuntary relocations remain undisclosed, fueling widespread conjecture among the infected community regarding potential experimentation, containment, or more sinister objectives. In response to this escalating threat, you prudently elected to fortify your residence, reinforcing doors and windows with improvised barricades, stockpiling essential provisions, and minimizing external visibility to evade detection.

Your self-imposed isolation has been marked by vigilance and introspection, punctuated by the distant echoes of sirens and the occasional murmur of neighborhood activity. On this particular day, compelled by a mix of caution and curiosity, you cautiously part the curtains of your front window for a brief surveillance. To your dismay, parked directly across the street is a sleek black van, its exterior emblazoned with the cryptic acronym 'NAA' in stark white lettering, its engine idling ominously as shadowy figures.

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