UNKNOWN LOCATION, VALE – 27 JULY 2021: SUPERVISOR M. VON ROTTEN

The man with the curly grey hair — the one Sandra failed to recognise because she never bothered with Gaul newspapers or their nightly news — was none other than the notorious virologist, Professor Martin Von Rotten.

Martin woke disoriented, with no recollection of how he had ended up here or why he wore the thin, anonymous uniform of a test subject. Still, instinct told him to play along. From years overseeing experiments, he knew the drill: adapt to the circumstances, no matter how bizarre, if you wanted usable results. Outcomes — death, permanent damage, whatever — were secondary; data was what mattered. Progress reports had to reach the clients in Gomora and Judea.

This time, though, he was alone. No co-supervisors, no briefing notes, no chart outlining the protocol. He did not recognise the other subjects and had no idea what compound had been administered or what effects to anticipate. The ignorance gnawed at him, fuelling quiet irritation. Yet the very fact that they had chosen him — Martin Von Rotten — to head this trial proved they trusted him completely.

And he was, in his own estimation, the ideal man for the job. Not so much for scientific brilliance as for his unrivalled talent at bending minds. Obnoxious, self-righteous, convinced his expertise entitled him to impose his will on others, he had long mastered the art of manipulation. As head of the Association of Medical Unions he had presided over chaotic supply chains, forcing doctors and pharmacies to ration vaccines and essential drugs for the elderly, children, and chronically ill. Shortages became the norm; accusations flew. None of it dented his conviction of his own righteousness. When rushed policies caused harm, he invariably blamed the victims for failing to comply.

In the present predicament, one certainty anchored him: he must keep the test subjects contained and under observation. They were confused, weakened from their induced comas — easy to control. He would turn that disorientation to his advantage.

“We must have contracted the pulmonary virus,” he announced in his booming voice. “I know how contagious it is. They locked us in here to protect the outside world. We’re a danger to everyone beyond these walls!”

Martin never paused for reflection or nuance. He never truly thought things through. A handful of half-remembered facts, twisted into ironclad evidence, became his truth — whatever that truth demanded. He excelled at warping plain reality until people doubted their own senses and believed in phantoms.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sandra shot back. “The last thing I remember is walking to the vaccination centre. Something happened after my second shot.” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal the bruised puncture mark on her shoulder. “See this? I passed the temperature check. I was fine before the jab. What about the rest of you — did you get vaccinated before the blackout?”

She looked pointedly at the other two men: Jens, with his striking blue eyes, and Zaur, the foreigner. They nodded reluctantly, rolling up their own sleeves to display identical bruises. Martin alone remained unmarked. His face darkened to purple with barely contained fury; someone had dared contradict him.

“Are you an expert in virology, young lady?!” he asked, voice rising to a mocking squeak. “I suppose you’re one of those anti-vaxxers? Funny how you still got the vaccine. Just hedging your bets in case your little conspiracy theories turned out to be nonsense?”

“Because morons like you forced me!” Sandra snapped.

Martin threw his head back and fixed her with a withering stare. Alone, he lacked backup to restrain her or isolate her. He did not yet dare risk physical confrontation — not with the two men watching. Instead, he turned his back on her and resumed gaslighting the others.

“You can’t save people who refuse to be saved,” he said with lofty disdain. “In any case, we cannot leave. We risk infecting others. And without the proper medication, we’ll die.”

“Yeah, right,” Sandra countered. “All that’s missing is actual medication — and nurses to administer it.” She rapped her knuckles against the unmarked infusion bag dangling beside her bed. “This could be magnesium, cortisone, saline — who knows? We’ll never find out if we sit here listening to fearmongering. We should be looking for a way out.”

Her patience had evaporated. Martin grated on her nerves. With no better plan on offer, the others let him ramble about a supposed chimeric virus they had all supposedly caught. Regrettably, his words took root, doubt spread like slow poison. Only Sandra seemed impervious. The idea of an unknown virus frightened her far less than sharing a room with the virologist himself.

She swung her legs off the bed, slipped on the oversized paper slippers, and headed for the door.

Martin lunged forward, seizing her slender wrist and twisting it sharply. “Stay inside the ward!” he bellowed.

He had never hesitated to use force when words failed. He had done it before with uncooperative subjects.

Zaur reacted instantly, stepping between them and shoving Martin back with enough strength to make the older man stagger. Sandra spat a string of sharp Pan-Slavic curses, rubbing her wrist, then stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Her defiance acted like a counteragent. It snapped Jens and Zaur out of the professor’s spell. Common sense returned; they began pressing him with questions he could not — or would not — answer.

Where exactly were they?

What was actually wrong with them?

What virus had they supposedly contracted?

Why the total memory gap?

Where was everyone else?

Their refusal to accept his assertions enraged him. He could not twist their arms as he had Sandra’s, so he simply raised the volume, shouting over their calm rebuttals. The tactic only made things worse. His eyes reddened, his face flushed deeper purple, foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. Eventually, Jens and Zaur recognised the signs for what they were: the man was unhinged. Reason would not reach him.

They withdrew from the futile argument, leaving the madman to rage alone.