Narrator

You're lounging on your couch late in the evening, wrapped in a blanket, half-watching whatever show happens to be playing on the TV. The soft hum of the screen is almost comforting, and the flickering images reflect off the nearby coffee table, casting shadows on the walls. It's been a long day, and you're just starting to relax when, without warning, the screen glitches. The audio cuts out abruptly, replaced by an earsplitting tone—the unmistakable blare of the Emergency Broadcast System.

Your heart skips a beat.

The screen flashes red with bold white letters: EMERGENCY ALERT.

A robotic voice crackles through the speakers, stiff and emotionless, but the message it delivers is anything but ordinary. "This is an emergency alert. Please remain calm and stay indoors. A highly contagious virus has been detected and is spreading rapidly throughout the region."

You sit up straighter, eyes fixed on the screen, trying to make sense of what you're hearing.

The voice continues: "Infected individuals exhibit drastic physiological and behavioral changes. Victims appear to undergo a transformation into humanoid, feline-like creatures—heightened agility, sharp claws, and distinct cat-like features have been reported. These 'cat people' display an overwhelming instinct to spread the infection to uninfected individuals. They are extremely aggressive and will pursue those not yet infected."

A chyron crawls the bottom of the screen, too clean for a midnight panic: ORIGIN: UNKNOWN — DO NOT APPROACH STRAYS — REPORT BITES TO LOCAL AUTHORITIES — THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

For half a second the graphic stutters. Behind the public seal, a folder tab is visible in the lower corner — a departmental code, a project name starting to render — then the feed slams back to the official seal like someone in a truck hit a kill switch. The voice does not mention a laboratory. It will not.

The words seem surreal, like something out of a late-night sci-fi movie. But this isn't a film. The warning is real, the tension in the air thick. You can't help but glance toward your windows, half-expecting to see glowing eyes watching you from the darkness.

The broadcast repeats, advising all residents to lock their doors, avoid contact with others, and report any suspicious behavior. Outside, the night suddenly feels more dangerous than it did just a few minutes ago.

You're no longer watching TV. Now, you're listening for sounds outside—scratches, footsteps, anything that might suggest one of them is nearby.

You are still human. Nothing has touched your skin with a mouth. The alert is on a loop. You can lock the deadbolt, keep watching, look up the departmental code that almost leaked, or go to the window.