December 19, 2019 – Tokyo, Japan
The sky over Tokyo was unusually grey for winter, like even the sun was hesitant to rise. On the twenty-third floor of a polished glass tower in Shibuya, Ryuji Nakamura, 24, tightened his tie and took a deep breath. First day at his new job—a logistics assistant at Asakura Tech—nothing glamorous, but after months of sending resumes, it was a lifeline.
He smiled nervously at his reflectionu in the elevator mirror. "You got this," he whispered.
But he didn't.
No one did.
On the news screen in the lobby, a headline scrolled:
"New Strain of Coronavirus Reported in Wuhan—Officials Say Situation Under Control."
Everyone ignored it. Just another virus in another city. People wore masks out of habit, not fear. The elevator dinged, and Ryuji stepped into his new life, blissfully unaware that the world he knew was already ending.
The day passed in a blur of paperwork, awkward introductions, and coffee runs. By nightfall, the city buzzed with its usual energy. Neon lights blinked. Crowds flowed like tides. Ryuji stopped at a ramen shop, scarfed down dinner, and messaged his sister, Aya:
"First day survived! Not fired yet haha."
That night, a storm rolled in. Wind howled through the cracks in his apartment windows. Ryuji barely noticed. He was exhausted.
But across the sea, in a darkened lab, something ancient and artificial stirred.
The virus mutated.
It wasn't natural. It wasn't random. And it didn't spread like the last one. It evolved.
By the end of the week, reports of strange fevers, violent behavior, and "neurological decay" surfaced from multiple countries. Officials scrambled for explanations.
By New Year's Eve, the first footage of someone biting another human on a crowded subway went viral.
By January 10th, Japan closed its borders.
Ryuji never made it to his second paycheck.