They said it would cure everything.
Not in whispers or behind closed doors, but on televisions, in crowded hospitals, in classrooms and corner stores. The future was finally here. A little vial of hope — engineered by dreamers, perfected by professionals, and pushed by power.
They didn't call it a cure. They called it progress.
Raine's mother believed in medicine. A combat medic who'd held lives in her hands and saved more than she lost. Raine's father believed in people. A soldier who gave his uniform back when he realized orders didn't always mean right.
They would've known better.
Now her mother was a memory and her father was gone.
All that was left was Raine. And the dead didn't stay still anymore.
Some say the world ended in fire.
Others say in silence.
Raine remembers the day the sky was still blue, the streets still busy, and laughter still real.
She remembers March 15th.
The last day before.
And how she didn't realize until it was too late —
— that everything alive would learn to die differently.