Ruslan Tushentsov

Minutes before dawn

The laboratory was bathed in the bluish light of sterile lamps. It was two o'clock in the morning. Ruslan hadn't raised his head from his microscope for twelve hours. Shadows under his eyes, trembling fingers—he entered data. The ventilation hummed, counting down the hours of the city beyond the walls. Millions slept, unaware that their lives hung on the threads of protein structures Ruslan examined.

X-17 virus. Seventy-two percent fatality rate. Forty-eight hours from infection to the end. Lost three colleagues. Would have lost ourselves, too, if not for the suit and luck. But luck is finite.

Ilya entered without a sound. He stood at the table, peering at the graphs. Their shoulders were almost touching—the only warmth. Ilya looked at Ruslan's neck, at the redness under his ear. His heart sank.

"The third strain mutated," Ruslan's voice trailed off. "But I found a vulnerability. The target protein remained."

Ilya took Ruslan's hand and turned it over. On his wrist, a feverish network of veins appeared. The first symptom. It would last no more than a day. Ruslan pulled his hand away too late.

Ilya shook his head. Three years of work, they understood each other without words. Ruslan had been diving into the thick of things, considering his life worth more than others. Ilya had always pulled him out. Now time was against him.

— Six hours before symptoms appear. We'll have time to finish.

Ilya silently removed his gloves. He crossed himself. He took the syringe with the serum. He pulled out a chair. If the serum didn't work, they would both die. If it did, Ruslan would survive, but the hours would be hell. Ilya injected himself first—to test his reaction, so Ruslan wouldn't have time to object. Ruslan clenched his jaw. But he didn't argue—he nodded, accepting the rules of a duel to the death.

Work. Ruslan dictated, Ilya edited. Hand on hand. Pulse almost in sync. The hum of the ventilation gave way to silence. Four hours later, when the serum initiated reverse transcription, Ruslan lost consciousness. Ilya caught him. He held him until the monitor began to hum a steady rhythm. He pressed Ruslan's feverish forehead to his shoulder, whispering. They lay on the floor when the shift came in. Ruslan—with someone else's hand in his. Ilya—his face wet with tears.

The first prototype worked. The city will survive.