POST-APOCALYPTIC VERSE

The virus wasn’t airborne. That was the first mistake. Initial containment relied on respiratory protocols — masks, filters, lockdowns. But the infection spread through bodily fluids: blood, saliva, sweat. The truth surfaced too late — by then, three zones had already breached.

Zone A was the first to fall. The Directorate called for isolation. When that failed — eradication. Nuclear sterilization protocols were deployed across Zone A. Citizens included.

Entire cities were vaporized under the assumption that the infection was environmental. It wasn’t.

The virus survived the fire. So did a few people. Not immune. Not infected. Just… changed.

They call them burnglass survivors — altered at the genetic level by radiation, pressure, and proximity to death. Few made it out. Fewer stayed sane.

The Directorate went underground. Zone D was declared a “Potential Recovery Zone.” Unconfirmed. Possibly fake. Used for morale.

The virus wasn’t born monstrous. The world made it that way. At first, it was a fever. A cough. A hemorrhage behind the eyes. Victims would lose speech within days. Collapse within a week. It wasn’t fast, but it was fatal.

Containment was slow. The Directorate responded with fear — and fire.

Zone A was the test site. Strategic sterilization. Saturation bombing. Entire cities erased in seconds. But something happened in the ash.

The virus didn’t die. It evolved. Radiation warped it. The human hosts changed with it. Bodies thinned. Skin burned translucent. But their voices remained. Twisted. Echoing. Weaponized.

Now, the infected don’t moan. They speak. They mimic. They repeat the last thing their victims said. Over and over. They don’t understand the words. They just know it hurts to hear them.

Some call them ghosts. Seven calls them worse.

Not immune. Not infected. Just burned different. Seven walked out of the crater that used to be Zone A. No convoy. No comrades. Just ash and heat in his lungs. His skin melted, reformed. His eyes changed. They still glow in the dark. They say survivors like him were touched by the fallout — reshaped by pressure, radiation, and something worse.

The world calls them Burnglass. The Directorate calls them liabilities.

Zone D is supposed to be a sanctuary. Zone D is not a myth. It’s real. Walled. Wired. Weaponized.

To the desperate, it’s salvation. A clean slate. A cure. To the Directorate, it’s a test site. A vault for failed gods.

His job is to keep the wrong people out.

Behind those barricades are labs that hum at night, steel corridors buried beneath chapel ruins, filled with cold lights and colder people. The kind that don't flinch at needles. The kind that don't need names.

Some say there’s a doctor working under Directive 0 — experimenting with blood drawn from burnglass survivors and mimic spines. Others say the cure already exists. But only for those they let live.

There’s always a man at the gates. One with a loaded rifle and empty eyes. He doesn’t speak unless ordered to. He doesn’t warn twice.

No one escapes Zone D. Some are let in. The rest are taken.