UNKNOWN LOCATION, VALE – 28 JULY 2021: SUBJECT SANDRA

Sandra started to tremble during her clash with Martin, yet she refused to let him have the final word. That stubbornness kept her rooted longer than she intended, trading barbs until the argument escalated. She had not anticipated him seizing her wrist when she finally turned to leave. But she had lived in Gaul long enough to know their men could turn savage the moment the public eye was absent. Even the presence of witnesses rarely restrained someone like Martin — especially when the target was a foreign woman. The incident left one thing crystal clear: she would need to stay wary of the professor.

All she craved now was to crawl under the covers, as far from Von Rotten as possible. She slipped into one of the empty wards down the corridor, gathered every spare bedspread from the unoccupied stretchers, and tucked an extra pillow between her knees for comfort. The temperature had plummeted since they awoke; whether the weather had shifted outside or someone had tampered with the thermostat, she could not tell. Shivering beneath the piled blankets, she drifted into uneasy sleep.

Just before losing consciousness, she registered someone entering, calling her name softly. Too exhausted to answer, she let the voice fade. The intruder withdrew quietly, leaving her alone with feverish, disjointed nightmares.

In the small hours, nausea jolted her awake. She could not decide whether it stemmed from the vaccine or simple hunger. The infusion had sustained her through days of unconsciousness, but its effect was waning. Heat radiated from her skin; she needed to cool down. A walk through the frigid hallways might help.

She paused in the doorway, listening. The men were silent — still asleep. Barefoot, she stepped into the corridor’s bluish half-light and felt her way toward the double doors of what had once been the clinic’s cafeteria. She knew the cupboards were bare — she had checked them earlier — but a childish hope lingered that some forgotten chocolate bar might hide in a drawer. The mere thought turned her stomach, yet she understood she needed something solid to steady herself.

She returned empty-handed. In the bathroom she filled a plastic cup from the tap and drank slowly. Normally vomiting brought relief when she felt ill, but this was different. Nausea rolled in waves, each crest accompanied by a deep, uncontrollable terror that made her diaphragm quiver. Long pauses separated the surges, giving her just enough time to breathe before the next one struck. She could not name the fear, only that it demanded help.

They all needed help.

As she slipped back toward sleep, one resolve crystallised: she had to convince the others to escape at any cost and find proper medical care.

Hours later she woke to sunlight streaming through the window. Martin’s voice echoed distantly — yelling again. She splashed cold water on her face to dull the persistent fever, then hurried toward the sound.

In the cafeteria she found the three men gathered. Jens was methodically opening and slamming cupboard doors; Zaur and Martin were locked in another heated exchange.

“There’s no food,” she said quietly, approaching Jens.

He glanced over his shoulder, steel-blue eyes meeting hers. The other two remained oblivious, too absorbed in their argument.

“Maybe because you ate it all?” Jens replied. The attempt at flirtation came out sounding more like an accusation.

Sandra studied him. On the surface he appeared quiet, composed — speaking only when spoken to. Yet something about him felt off, a subtle wrongness visible only if one paid close attention. His tall, broad-shouldered frame cast a long, slithering shadow as he moved, evoking the Grim Reaper more than a fellow patient. He was not searching for food. Desperation flickered in his eyes each time he wrenched open a door, then shut it with controlled violence.

No one else seemed to notice the panic steadily overtaking him. He paced, rubbing his temples hard enough to leave red marks. Sandra sensed the thin thread of his self-control fraying. In the sudden lull between Martin and Zaur’s shouting, she raised her voice.

“We need to leave this place immediately. Something’s wrong with us — that’s why we’ve been isolated. I don’t feel well, and I don’t believe anyone is coming to check on us.”

“Well, maybe that’s your problem,” Martin sneered. “I feel perfectly fine. Last I checked, I hold a degree in science. I can tell you a thing or two about viruses. In my humble opinion, we stay put and await further instructions.”

Sandra had expected his refusal. She ignored him and addressed the other two, hoping to sway them.

Zaur looked relieved at the interruption but avoided her gaze, unwilling to engage. Jens, meanwhile, acted as though the matter did not concern him; he simply walked out. Sandra followed. She needed him as an ally — his voice, she sensed, would carry weight.

She found him halted in the middle of the dark hallway, frowning, scanning the space. He knew she was there but chose to ignore her while he inspected a nearby ward. Sandra waited on the windowsill, giving him time to satisfy himself that the room held nothing useful.

Eventually, he emerged and joined her, leaning against the wall with arms folded across his chest. The posture reminded her of a policeman on duty.

“I’m from the Army,” he muttered, as though reading her mind, eyes fixed on the floor. The glassy sheen in them had dulled; he seemed calmer.

“And I’m a translator. What were you looking for?”

The question slipped out before she could temper it. Jens did not flinch.

“My personal stuff. Last thing I remember is the black bag I was carrying. Can’t find it anywhere.” He paused, cracking his knuckles one by one.

“So, what do you make of all this, Sandra? You seem like one of the few sane ones here. I figure you’ve had time to think it through.”

The words carried the clipped weight of an order from superior to subordinate. His tone did not intimidate her — Gauls had treated her the same way for years, especially after learning her profession. Foreign translators, in their eyes, ranked somewhere below furniture.

Yet Jens needed her opinion more than he let on.

“Something serious must have happened to land us here — whatever this place is. We’ve been out for days. Someone must have monitored us during that time. I feel sick.” She hesitated, then pressed on. “I think I’m infected with something worse than the pulmonary virus. I can only speak for myself, but if the rest of you are sick too, that explains why we’re all here together. Not because of Martin, but for caution’s sake, I suggest we wait one more day. Maybe someone will show up and explain…”

“If not?” Jens asked.

“Then I leave. The doors are locked, but I’ll break a window if I have to.”

“What if I won’t let you vandalise state property?” His voice dropped, low and menacing.

Sandra met his blue eyes directly. In that instant she saw through the performance. Jens might once have worn an Army uniform, but he cared nothing for civilians or protocol. He showed no trace of concern about a potentially lethal infection. He was not seeking answers to their confinement. He was solitary, self-contained. Even if she set the building ablaze, he would not intervene — no matter how threatening he sounded.

“I don’t think you would,” she said evenly. “Once you find your bag, you’ll be the first one out — without telling the rest of us. Am I right?”

Jens studied her face the way soldiers did in films — careful, assessing. Then he straightened, gave a single nod, and walked away. The gesture was clear: they understood each other. He would leave her alone so long as she did not interfere.

Sandra had no intention of interfering. She recognised that his iron self-control and Martin’s obnoxious bluster sprang from the same root: a kind of insanity, each man driven by forces the others could only glimpse.