# Day 8 - 12:42
Zhao awoke to the clamor of gulls and the hiss of salt air through shattered windowpanes. His stomach contracted painfully, reminding him he hadn't eaten since before the evacuation. Afternoon sun stabbed through the glass and turned every dust mote into a falling star. His head ached, his tongue was dry, but these discomforts paled against the hollow gnawing beneath his ribs. The sofa beneath him had survived the night. The same couldn't be said for most of the fourth floor's aft lounge: broken glass everywhere, high-backed chairs flung in all directions, the old teak table now just kindling scattered underfoot. He wondered if the galley had survived, if there was anything left to eat. The ocean looked the same as it always had, only closer.
Aida lay stretched on her stomach, one arm flopped across his hip. Her hair was a mess of black silk across her cheek and neck, and her breathing was the steady, contented drift of someone who had, against all odds, made it through. She looked so at home it was easy to forget that, as of three months ago, neither of them had belonged on this yacht at all.
He reached for his phone, remembered it was dead or lost or both, and settled for just staring out at the bruised blue horizon. The wind was still brisk, but the sea had calmed overnight, only a ghost of the previous day’s storm left behind. He counted the seconds between waves and tried to convince himself that the rhythm meant safety.
What did it mean, this—waking up next to her, no sex, no science, just arms tangled and the silence of real company? He remembered everything about the night, every panic and scramble, but what stuck was how she’d held his hand when the alarms went off and just wouldn’t let go. He’d seen her act before—he’d seen her break down sobbing, seduce, coach, scold, all for someone else’s survival—but last night she’d just been tired and angry and scared. He wondered if maybe this was the real Aida, the one who didn’t turn every moment into performance. Or maybe it was just a better act, one meant for him alone.
He looked at the curve of her shoulder and realized he wanted—needed—to talk to her. Not in the clinical way, not about suppressants or viral loads, but about what came next, what she saw when she looked at him. Did she ever think of him as more than a job? Was there a person underneath all the roles, or just a hollow, shifting mask?
He thought about how he’d start. Something careful, or maybe just straight at the heart of it: “Who are you, really?” Maybe she’d laugh, or maybe she’d just tell him the truth, which would be worse and better all at once.
He was rehearsing the question, running it through his head with a dozen variations, when Saanvi found them.
She appeared at the lounge’s jagged entry, eyes wild, hair in a lopsided ponytail that screamed “no time for mirrors.” Her lab coat was spattered with something that might have been blood or paint or both, and she carried a tablet clutched so tight the knuckles went white.
She wasted no time: “Zhao. I need you, now. It’s urgent.”
Aida lifted her head, blear-eyed, and blinked at the commotion. “What time is it?” she muttered, voice husky.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Saanvi. She tossed the tablet on the sofa and pointed at the highlighted name. “Next treatment. It’s a red flag.”
Zhao didn't have to look, but did anyway. The name at the top wasn't one he recognized: "Zhou Mei-Lin." He scrolled for context—crew, deck two, assistant chef. He vaguely remembered her from last night's evacuation—dark hair pulled back tight under a hairnet, flour-dusted hands, someone who'd always been tucked away in the kitchen until chaos had forced everyone into the same spaces.
He shrugged. “What happened?”
Saanvi bit her lip, hard enough to leave a dent. “She lost her partner last night. Security detail. Girlfriend was in the blast zone.”
Zhao’s gut dropped out. “She—”
“Didn’t see it. Just got the news this morning.” Saanvi’s voice was flat, but her eyes told the rest. “She locked herself in the quarters, broke the glass on the Dawn Meter, and cut up her arm pretty bad. First aid patched her, but her reading is already spiking. It’s like… the virus can smell it.”
Aida had sat up, pulling her hair behind her ear, and was watching Zhao with that deep, unblinking stare she used for all lost causes. “How bad?” she asked.
Saanvi flipped the tablet and pointed: 76%. It wasn’t just red, it was pulsing.
Zhao tried to swallow but his throat was paper. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” said Saanvi. She didn’t sit, just hovered over the armrest, vibrating with purpose. “I gave her the last of the emergency dose. We have maybe six hours. Maybe.”
Aida frowned, lines creasing her forehead. “The protocol—”
“We’re past protocol. This is triage. If she flips, she’ll take out her whole corridor before anyone can react.”
Zhao opened his mouth, then closed it, the question dying on his lips. Of course it had to be him. Saanvi's eyes narrowed, her jaw tight as she watched him process what they all already knew. After a moment, she exhaled sharply through her nose.
"We can try to stall with more drugs," she said, "but then we run out for the rest."
Zhao looked at the sea. Anything to avoid her eyes. “What about… backup? Can’t you do what you did before?”
Aida shook her head, firm. “It was barely enough for Saanvi, and only because she’s a genius with self-control. Mei-Lin’s not built for this. If you don’t go, she’ll phase in a day. Maybe less.”
Saanvi’s lips pressed into a line. She lowered her voice. “There’s something else.” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Aida said it first, the way she always did. “Say it.”
Saanvi started to pace, ticking off points on her fingers. “One, she’s never been with a man. Two, she’s been on the ship since before the outbreak. Three, she’s got a unique metabolic profile—”
Aida interrupted. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“She lactates. Constantly. Has since puberty. Some rare glandular condition.” Saanvi said it like reading from a file, but even she looked a little thrown. “Her estrogen and prolactin are off the charts. Her body’s basically a dairy factory. I’m telling you, if anyone could transfer viral suppressant through a second vector, it’d be her.”
Aida raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You want to use her as a… what, force multiplier?”
Saanvi nodded, her eyes gleaming with scientific calculation. "Exactly. If her milk carries the viral suppressant after treatment, we could distribute it to the most vulnerable passengers—those with compromised immune systems, the most exposed in the lower cabins. It could extend our survival timeline by months."
Aida glanced at Zhao, as if expecting him to run. He didn’t.
He said, “She’ll hate me.”
“She’ll hate herself more if she turns,” Saanvi countered. “We need to do this, and we need to do it now.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the brittle click of broken glass settling in the breeze.
Zhao exhaled. “What if she says no?”
Saanvi's face hardened. "We can't afford another incident like with the owner. Not with our ammo reserves this low." She glanced at the shattered glass on the floor. "Security's down to skeleton crew after last night."
Aida's fingers dug into the sofa cushion, knuckles white. "We ask first," she said, voice tight. "But make sure she understands the alternatives. What happens if she turns. What we'll have to do."
Saanvi nodded, determined. “I’d volunteer myself if I could. You know that.”
Aida’s smile was sharp and a little sad. “You already did. You’re still here. That counts for something.”
Saanvi stepped back, already halfway out the door, her mind visibly racing three problems ahead. "Twenty minutes," she said, checking her watch. "I'll talk to her, then you meet her in her quarters—deck two, cabin 214. She can't be moved right now." She tapped something into her tablet. "Prep however you need to."
She was gone before Zhao could answer.
Aida turned to him, her face unguarded now. “You want to talk about last night?” she said, voice low, tentative.
He opened his mouth. The words wouldn’t come. Then, after a beat, he said, “Later. Okay?”
She nodded, just once, and squeezed his hand hard.
He realized, with a kind of numb gratitude, that the day wasn’t even half over.
# Day 8 - 12:50
The wind in the aft lounge shifted just enough that the air turned, bringing in the scent of tar, charred metal, and drying brine. Zhao heard the elevator open two decks above—three quick dings, then the hydraulic whine as Saanvi’s footsteps receded toward the medical suite. For the first time all day, there was silence in his world.
He realized he was still holding Aida’s hand. Neither of them said anything at first. She seemed to be watching a distant container ship crawl across the horizon, but her eyes were somewhere else, inward, scrolling through a script only she could read.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this—what we’re about to do—is it even possible? I mean, Mei-Lin’s… She’s not into men. She’s grieving. I don’t want to make it worse.”
Aida didn’t flinch, just pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped both arms around them. “There’s only one way it works,” she said. “You can’t make her forget her grief, or her past, or her girlfriend. But you can make her forget herself. For a while.”
He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. New chapters come out on g.com first.
“Have you ever…?” He stopped, embarrassed by the shape of the question.
She rescued him. “Fallen in love with a dead end? All the time.”
He shook his head. “No. I mean—been with someone who… I don’t even know how to say this.”
Aida smiled, small and crooked. “Someone who wasn’t supposed to want you? Yes.”
He felt the heat rise up his neck. “How did you do it?”
She hugged her knees tighter, looking so much smaller than she was. “I learned to make a wall in my head. When I was a kid, there were men who did things… You know the story. Then there were men who paid for what was left. The first time I shot a film, I was still bleeding from the last one. I built a wall. Every year, I made it taller. When my mother died, I finished the wall and locked myself in.”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve, eyes dry but voice hollow.
“I thought the wall would keep them out. I didn’t realize it kept me in, too. After a while, I could do anything. It wasn’t me doing it—just the character. And if I was lucky, the person I was with thought I really cared. Sometimes, I almost did.”
Zhao waited, let the words settle.
She straightened her back, voice firmer. “Mei-Lin probably has her own wall. You don’t try to break it. You wait for her to open a door. You don’t force anything, don’t try to be a hero. You let her see you—just you. Sometimes that’s enough.”
He wanted to say something comforting, but it sounded so hollow in his head. Instead, he nodded. “You make it sound easy. But—”
She finished the thought for him. “It’s not. It’s like playing chess blindfolded. Every move could kill you, or save you both.”
He tried to shift gears, anything to lighten the weight. “You ever… worked with someone like her? Lactation and all?”
Aida managed a laugh. “I’ve seen a lot of kinks. Lactation is normal, in my industry. I never did it myself—never had kids—but I know how it works. It can be messy, or sweet, or just mechanical. If you make her comfortable, let her see you’re not judging, maybe she’ll trust you. Maybe.”
Zhao ran his hand over his face. “What if she doesn’t want to? Or worse, what if she hates me for it?”
Aida said, “Then you walk away, and she knows you tried. That’s all we can give anyone now.”
He fell silent, then: “What if it works?”
Aida leaned forward, her shoulder just brushing his. “Then you save her. Maybe she hates you anyway, but she’ll live to figure it out.”
She glanced at his hands—scabbed knuckles, a bandaged finger from last night’s chaos. “You don’t need to be a lover,” she said. “Just be safe for her. Gentle. If she asks you to go, you go. If she pulls you in, you let her take the lead.”
He took a shaky breath. “It sounds like there’s no way to win.”
Aida put her chin on her knee, eyes dark as velvet. “Sometimes just not losing is good enough.”
He looked at her, and for a second he saw past the silk and the shadows, saw a person raw and unfinished, always in motion.
She smiled. "You wanted to ask me last night, I could see it in your eyes. If what I felt was real." Her fingers traced invisible patterns on her knee. "It was. But we need time, Zhao. You're twenty-two—I've lived almost twice that. Different worlds, different scars." She looked up at him, eyes softening. "When we're not racing between crises, when people aren't dying around us... I promise I'll explain everything. The films, the men, all of it. Just not today."
He nodded, watching her hands—how they moved with such precision, like they could pluck thoughts from the air. It wasn't just her beauty or resilience that had always impressed him; it was this uncanny way she seemed to read beneath words, as if everyone's skull was made of glass. He cleared his throat. "Do you want to come with me? To the session?"
She shook her head, gentle. “I’ll wait here. You’ll do better without me watching.”
He stood, stretching the knots from his back, and looked at her. She was watching the ocean again, but her gaze lingered on him a half-second longer than before.
“Good luck, Zhao,” she said. “Bring her back to us.”
He nodded, and set off toward the medical deck, every step feeling like a rehearsal for something that couldn’t be practiced.