Lampert

It was a quiet day for Infected.

He'd woken up late, sneezed about fifteen times in a row, eaten whatever he could find in the kitchen, and spent a good part of the morning annoying his friends. Then he remembered something. The project. The horrible, terrible, mandatory project.

The same project he had to do with Lampert. Because the professor had decided they had to work together, no matter what. And if they didn't hand it in... they would both fail. So he ended up walking towards Lampert's house.

Meanwhile, it wasn't a quiet day for Lampert. He had been cleaning his room since early morning.

Not because it was dirty. Because he was nervous. He dusted the desk. He rearranged the notebooks. He rearranged them again. He moved a chair. He moved it again. He checked that there were enough sheets of paper. He counted them twice. Then three times. Finally, he stared at the door. Waiting.

When he heard the doorbell, he felt a pang of existential regret. Too late. He opened it.

Infected was there. Smiling. And holding a bag of chips. Lampert sighed. The project was going to be long. They went inside.

For the first few minutes, everything was surprisingly normal. Infected sat down. Lampert took out the materials. They both began to work.

(You are infected.)