Chapter Eleven

A week ago
That same dream-- again.
Except this time, I can almost reach them--my parents' hands, outstretched and trembling. I can see the despair in my mum’s eyes just before they close forever. Dad’s across the road, blood pooling beneath him. Sirens wail in the distance, drowning in static. I try to move, to scream--but I can’t. The nightmare drags me under, binding me in place, forcing me to relive my worst nightmare all over again. Helpless. Paralyzed. Powerless. Just like that night. Somewhere beneath all of it, I hear the faint buzz of my alarm.
I’m dreaming. I know I’m dreaming.
But I can’t take another look at my mother’s lifeless face. I want out.
And then--I wake up.

I hit snooze on my alarm and run a hand through my hair. The first thing I do, as always, is reach for the photo frame on my nightstand.
Me, Mum, Dad, and my unborn brother in Mum’s belly.
The photo was uncalled for--just something she decided to take that day. Maybe she sensed it. Maybe she wanted me to remember us like that: whole, happy, untouched.
A perfect family, right before the fall.

I swing my legs off the bed, still in sweatpants, and stretch my long arms overhead.
Jeez. I need a shower. But first, the gym.

I slip in my pods and head to the basement. Unlike the rest of the house, the basement is carved out with stone-paved walls -- dark, raw, and stripped of pretense. It’s my sanctuary, like the house itself: hidden deep in the woods, far enough from people, yet close enough to the city for the occasional trip into society.
Because even monsters need groceries.

Workout done. Protein shake in hand. Mind calmer than ever.

But instead of hitting the shower, I head to the river. Or rather, the waterfall -- though I prefer the wide, flowing stretch near the rocks. The water’s always cold. Calming. Like it knows just how much blood is about to be spilled and is offering me a moment of peace before it all begins.

I lie back on a smooth rock in the shallow streambed, the water moving over me like liquid glass. The sky above is flawless. How can a world so cruel still be this beautiful?

I close my eyes and breathe deep. Today is the day. I try to care. I can’t. Whatever empathy I had bled out years ago.
A 24-year-old man is about to turn the world upside down, and no one has a clue.
Twelve countries. Simultaneously. My men--well, the men I paid--are ready.

The method is simple: a fake drug trial. One that pays better than most, just enough to attract the desperate. Drug addicts, the homeless, the sick, the invisible. There’s always someone who needs money. None of them will realize what they’re signing up for until it’s too late.

They’ll be injected with The Crimson Virus -- cultivated in my lab over the past four years. Within five hours, their bodies will fall apart from the inside, and they’ll begin to bite. Spread. Infect. And no one will know where it started since the world will be busy crumbling.

The ones administering the virus will be masked, untraceable. The makeshift clinics will vanish without a trace. The world won’t even realize it’s been gutted until it’s already bleeding out.

Am I supposed to feel bad? Because I don’t.

Where was this world's compassion when it crushed me? When it tore my family apart? When the system failed me, spat on me, buried me?

There are no saints.
Only survivors.
And it’s time the world remembered that.

I’ve given everything to this plan. My youth. My rage. My future. Today, I take it all back.
Let it burn.
I’ll watch it burn.

I’ve got nothing left to lose. Even if someone tracks this back to me, I’m ready.
I don't mind dying for it. I’m alive simply because I’m not dead yet. If that even makes sense. I don’t fear death. I never have.

When I finally drag myself out of the water, I dry off with the towel I brought. I grab my phone from the rock beside me. 8:56 AM. Four minutes until the end begins.

I walk back to the house. Still dripping, still towel-drying my hair, I step into the kitchen and crack a couple of eggs into a pan. Breakfast seems like the right thing to do.

Will my parents hate the person I’ve become?
Maybe.
I hate him too, most days.
But that doesn’t stop the countdown.
And mercy was never part of the plan.