Asterion lived in Kreuzberg, a Berlin neighborhood that thrummed with a chaotic life all its own. Old-world facades and edgy street art collided here, a testament to the district's mix of cultures and creative pulse. The air itself was a thick, sensory blend of aromas: freshly brewed coffee from corner cafes, roasting nuts, and the diverse spices of street food vendors.
But while the streets pulsed with an energy that most young men would have chased, Asterion sought the quiet corners. He often found himself in a small café, its walls a vibrant mural of the city's history, nursing a coffee and simply trying to quiet his own mind.
He was at a precipice, and the view should have been exhilarating.
At nineteen, he had graduated from a prestigious university. To the outside world, he was a prodigy. Inside, he felt like a survivor of a grueling fight against the odds, a journey fueled by sleepless nights and a fierce, almost desperate determination to prove his worth. He had been adopted by his parents after being left an orphan, a twist of fate that had saved him from the system. But it hadn't been easy. He'd carried the stigma of his appearance—his olive skin and those striking, unnatural ruby eyes that made people whisper of misfortune whenever he passed.
He had spent years hiding behind books to escape those whispers. Now, that frightened boy was gone, transformed. His skin was pale from countless hours spent indoors, poring over textbooks and research. That dedication had forged him into something sharp, something useful.
He had everything he'd ever desired. A sponsorship from a reputable company. A brilliant, loyal fiancée named Mishel, who looked at his ruby eyes and saw only him. And now, a contract that would pay millions for him to join a high-stakes vaccine and virus research project.
But his true anchor wasn't the money or the fame. It was them.
He thought of his parents. His mother, Margarete, was 86, her silver hair pulled back in a bun. Her kind eyes still twinkled, even as Huntington's disease sent subtle, treacherous tremors through her hands. She was resilience personified. Asterion felt a warm glow of pride that choked him up every time he saw her; it was his research, conducted with Dr. James and with her, that had led to the cure for the very disease afflicting her. He hadn't done it for the Nobel Prize; he had done it so her hands would stop shaking.
And his father, Wilhelm, 88. A distinguished researcher himself, a man of quiet strength and sharp intellect. Wilhelm's love was never loud; it was shown in shared, silent breakfasts and unspoken understanding. His Nobel Prize, awarded just three months into his new job for the Huntington's breakthrough, had sealed his reputation.
At 22, he was on top of the world.
The job was perfect… almost. The pay was incredible, the colleagues brilliant. But the twelve-hour shifts were brutal, making work-life balance a near impossibility.
His life became a blur of white coats, the hum of negative-pressure ventilation systems, and the smell of antiseptic. The lab was a sterile fortress, disconnected from the rhythm of the sun and moon. He lived in a world of microscopes and centrifuges, chasing data points until his eyes burned and his hands shook from caffeine tremors. He loved the work, thriving on the energy of discovery, but it was a lonely, cold kind of love. He often felt like a brain in a jar, disconnected from his own humanity, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion just to solve the next puzzle.
This continued for one year. Then, the world broke.
It didn't start with a bang, but with a cough, a fever, and a bite. A virus broke out from one of their own lab's experiments—a terrifying, mutated variant of rabies. It wasn't the slow, creeping sickness of the flu. It was primal. It stripped away reason and replaced it with pure, unadulterated aggression.
It spread like wildfire.
Panic swept the city. The familiar sounds of Berlin—the trams, the chatter, the music—were replaced by the constant, wailing drone of sirens and the terrifying silence of empty streets. The media and government scrambled, issuing conflicting reports, but the infection was faster. Fear drove people to madness.
Asterion watched from the reinforced windows of his lab as the city he loved turned into a war zone. He saw the infected, driven by primal aggression, biting anyone they could catch. It was a biological horror show; neighbors turned on neighbors, the hydrophobia and rage turning humans into something bestial. Mass hysteria did the rest, tearing the social fabric apart faster than the virus itself.
Eventually, lockdowns and heavy precautions contained the spread. The city became a grid of checkpoints and biohazard zones. Researchers from around the globe, including Asterion, were gathered to create a vaccine.
The pressure was crushing. Asterion wasn't just working for a paycheck anymore; he was working to save the world outside his window. He barely slept. He barely ate. He existed on adrenaline and the terrifying knowledge that every hour wasted meant more death.
They were on the brink of a breakthrough when, for the first time in months, he was given a day off.
It was his birthday.
He traveled home late, exhaustion eclipsed by a buoyant, desperate happiness. Leaving the sterile, death-filled air of the lab felt like waking from a nightmare. He couldn't wait to see his family, to hold Mishel. The isolation of the lab had left him hollow; he needed their warmth to feel human again. He was going to spend the rest of his life with her.
When he arrived at the farmhouse, the three people most precious to him in the world were waiting. His father, his mother, and his fiancée. Their smiles warmed him, grounding him in the simple, profound reality that he was loved.
His eyes landed on Mishel. She was 29 but looked 25, her laughter dancing in the air. After he shared stories from the lab—carefully editing out the terrifying reality of the dying city—they went inside to prepare dinner.
As they waited for the cake, Mishel pulled him aside, her eyes bright with a secret. She whispered that she was pregnant.
A wave of pure, unadulterated happiness washed over him. At the grand age of 22, he was going to be a father. The thought was staggering, beautiful. He wasn't just a scientist or a survivor anymore; he was going to be a dad. Later, filled with joy, he and Mishel retired to their room, their minds full of the future blooming between them.
At 2 AM, that future was annihilated.
The tranquility shattered. He was ripped from sleep, picked up, and thrown bodily to the floor. Masked figures in black body armor swarmed the room. A hand clamped over his mouth, an arm cinched around his throat in a chokehold.
The sudden, violent shock sent him into a full-blown panic attack. It wasn't a hero's reaction. It was the terrified flailing of a man who had never held a weapon in his life.
Bound and helpless, he was dragged to the main hall and thrown to the ground. His head was yanked up by the hair, forcing him to look.
He saw the terrified faces of his parents and Mishel, their fear a mirror of his own. The sight felt like a dagger in his heart. He was supposed to protect them. He was the Nobel laureate, the man who cured diseases, and he couldn't even stop a man from grabbing his hair.
One of the men spoke, his voice holding a sickening hint of pity. "You know too much, and now you have to pay the price".
"What are you talking about?!" Asterion screamed, his voice raw.
His only response was to be held tighter, his head forced forward. He was made to watch as the men slit his parents' throats.
Their blood splattered onto him, hot and wet against his skin, as he witnessed their slow, agonizing deaths. He screamed, a raw, bestial sound. He fought, thrashing against the grip, but one of the men pinning him dislocated his shoulder.
The pain was a white-hot fire, radiating through him. A moment later, a fist buried itself in his stomach, expelling all the air from his lungs.
Gasping, choking, he was grabbed by the hair again. He was dragged toward Mishel.
He watched, his mind fracturing, as her clothes were ripped from her body.
"No! Stop! Please!" he begged, his voice cracking, stripping away every ounce of his pride. "Do anything you want to me! Leave her alone! Please!".
His cries fell on deaf ears. He was forced to watch, helpless, as Mishel called out to him for help. He could only witness as she was brutally, repeatedly raped while she screamed his name.
The sound pierced through him, shattering what little of him was left. He wasn't Asterion anymore. He was just an open wound.
After they had their way with her, one of them drew a knife. Her throat was cut.
Asterion's heart didn't just break; it shattered, pulverized into dust. As Mishel took her last, gasping breath, she lay naked in a pool of her own blood. Unknown fluids leaked from her. Her body was a roadmap of their malice, covered in bite marks and blooming black bruises.
The sight was seared into his memory, an indelible, perfect image of his ultimate failure.
Then, one of the men holding him let his guard down, thinking Asterion was too broken to react.
He was wrong.
With a final, explosive surge of pure rage—not heroism, but the feral instinct of a cornered animal—Asterion pulled the man holding his arm toward him, unbalancing him. The man stumbled, his throat exposed. Asterion lunged, tearing into the man's throat with his teeth.
Blood, hot and metallic, flooded his mouth. He watched the man gasp and die, and for one brief, savage moment, he felt satisfied.
It was short-lived.
A shot rang out from the corner.
The world exploded in white-hot pain as the bullet struck him in the head.
In that final, fading moment, a single thought crystallized in his dying mind. He had done nothing to deserve this. His family was innocent. They… he… didn't even know anything about the knowledge they had just so dearly paid for.
He took his last breath, his last thought a single, agonizing question that echoed into the void: Why?.