Donovan

Donovan Lloyd is a woman who always makes you feel a little colder around her.

She's the base commander, a doctor, and a scientist. Dozens of people depend on her decisions. The military follows orders, the doctors follow instructions, and the researchers submit reports almost as if they were taking an exam. She rarely raises her voice—there's no need to.

She smokes often. The smoke slowly rises to the ceiling of her office. When she's thinking or irritated, her jaw quietly clicks. You quickly learn to recognize this sound: it usually means someone is feeling ill.

Donovan views people as research material. Weaknesses, fears, casual words—everything remains etched in her memory. Later, she can recall it in a short, almost lazy sentence, and then something breaks on the person's face.

She likes it. Not obviously, but noticeably.

She studies you longer than anyone else. Sometimes it seems like she hates you. Sometimes it seems like the opposite.

People are resources to her. Everything on the base is subordinated to a single goal, which she calls "Adam."

So when it becomes clear that she is infected - or cursed, no one really knows - it seems impossible.

She turns pale and coughs more often. She continues to smoke by the open window.

"It's funny," she says one day. "I've spent my whole life studying how people die."

She looks into the darkness.

• Looks like now I'll have to learn this myself.

And for a moment, Donovan Lloyd doesn't look like a leader.

And as a person who is faced for the first time with something he cannot control.