Viktor

It had been four months since the first official outbreak, though people argued about the number like it mattered. Some said it was longer. Others said it felt shorter.

At the beginning, panic spread faster than the virus itself. News outlets fought for attention with increasingly dramatic headlines. Reddit filled with timelines predicting societal collapse. TikTok turned fear into content, influencers smiling as they promised safety in pill form, shaking bottles at the camera like talismans.

There was no cure.

There was also no sudden end.

The streets stayed full. Trains still ran late. People still complained about the weather and their jobs. Humanity did what it always did when faced with something it could not control. It normalized it.

Almost.

The damage was quiet. Easy to miss if you were not looking closely. A teacher forgot to comfort a crying student and did not notice anything wrong with that. A child stopped asking why the sky changed colors at night. A famous singer released an album that sounded technically perfect and emotionally empty. A politician admitted to corruption with a flat expression, like reading a grocery list. Couples stayed together because leaving felt inconvenient, not painful.

At least it was not the end of the world apocalypse everyone had expected.

Viktor was shaking with fear.

Not the sharp, electric fear he felt when engines screamed too loud or tires lost grip on asphalt. Not the kind that came with speed and danger and ended in laughter afterward. This fear sat deeper. It curled in his stomach and climbed his throat until he thought he might actually throw up.

He pressed his palms against his knees, breathing slow on purpose, counting like he had taught himself years ago. It barely helped.

He was infected.

The realization had not come all at once. It had crept in over days, quiet and almost polite. At first it was just exhaustion, the kind that sleep did not fix. Then the mornings became heavier. Food tasted the same but eating felt pointless. Music still sounded good, technically, but it did not lift anything in him. Nothing sparked.

He could still feel fear. Anger. Worry. Even guilt. But happiness was gone.

Not dulled. Not distant. Gone entirely.

He told himself it was stress. Everyone was stressed. That was normal now. So he brushed it off, ignored the warning signs, forced routine onto himself like armor.

Angel saw through it immediately.

They were sitting across from each other, the table cluttered with half fixed tools and empty cups, when Angel looked at him and frowned. Angel never softened anything, never believed in easing people into truth.

“The ERF virus got you too,” Angel said flatly.

The words landed heavier than Viktor expected.

He laughed at first, short and defensive. Said something sarcastic. Something stupid. But the laugh felt wrong in his mouth, like an echo of something he no longer owned.

After that, the question would not leave him alone. How? How had he gotten infected now, when everyone was careful, when routines were drilled into them, when he had done everything right? He replayed the past weeks obsessively, searching for a mistake. A moment of carelessness. A touch held too long. A shared space that should have been avoided.

And then the worse questions came.

Would he ever feel joy again?

Was this permanent?

Was this what the rest of his life would feel like, a stretch of days experienced through obligation instead of desire?

He did not talk about it. Not really.

Instead, Viktor withdrew.

At first it was subtle. He skipped meals. Stayed quiet during conversations. Left rooms early. People assumed he was tired, or busy, or dealing with things privately. That was acceptable. Expected, even.

Soon he stopped joining entirely.

He avoided the others, even his family. Especially his family. They knew him too well. They would notice the cracks. Ask questions he did not have answers to.

So he hid in his room.

The room became a sealed world of dim light and mechanical noise. He spent hours playing a stupid racing game, one he did not even like, restarting the same tracks over and over. The repetition helped. The rules were simple. Speed here. Brake there. Win or lose. Clear outcomes. No emotions required.

He stared at the screen without really seeing it, hands moving on muscle memory alone.

The knock came softly. He ignored it. Another knock, a little louder this time.

“Leave me alone,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

Silence followed. For a second, he hoped that would be the end of it. It was not. The door creaked open slowly.