Sofía (The Muscle) POV´s
The iron door didn't want to yield. It had rusted shut sometime during the administration of a president who was now dead and buried.
"Harder," I gritted out, bracing my boot against the slime-slicked brickwork. "On three. One. Two. Move!"
Julián and I slammed our shoulders into the metal simultaneously. The ancient hinges shrieked—a sound like a dying animal that echoed dangerously down the tunnel—and the door gave way, collapsing inward with a cloud of stagnant, rust-colored dust.
We tumbled into the darkness beyond, coughing.
The air inside was stale, smelling of old tobacco, diesel, and dry rot. But it was dry. And more importantly, it was warmer.
"Clear," I announced, sweeping the beam of my chem-light across the room.
It was a time capsule. A concrete bunker built into the foundations of the city, likely used by the Medellín Cartel in the 80s to move kilo bricks without the DEA seeing. There were rotting wooden pallets, empty crates marked 'Machinery Parts,' and a heavy steel table bolted to the floor.
"Shut the door," Elena ordered, her teeth chattering. She was kneeling beside Miguel, who was shaking so hard he looked like he was seizing. "We need to raise ambient temp immediately. Strip the wet layers. Now."
I shoved the heavy iron door back into its frame. It didn't seal perfectly, but it blocked the draft from the river.
The silence in the room was heavy. We stripped off our outer tactical vests and soaked jackets. The relief was instant, but deceptive.
"Look," Camila whispered, pointing to the corner.
There, hooked up to a dust-covered generator, was a portable heater. An old industrial coil unit.
"Does it work?" Miguel stammered, his lips violet.
I checked the generator. The tank was dry, but there were jerry cans stacked against the wall. I shook one. Liquid sloshed. Diesel. Old, but combustible.
"God provides," I muttered. I poured the fuel, primed the choke, and pulled the cord.
It sputtered, coughed black smoke, and died. I pulled again. And again. On the fourth pull, the engine roared to life. The coil heater began to glow a dull, angry orange.
Heat.
We huddled around it like cavemen discovering fire. The warmth washed over us, soaking into our frozen bones. Miguel let out a sob of relief.
But I wasn't looking at Miguel. I was looking at Julián.
He was standing at the edge of the light, staring at the glowing coils. The orange light reflected in his eyes, but there was something else there too. A spark.
"Julián?" I said, my hand drifting to my machete.
He twitched. A sharp, jerking motion of his neck.
"It feels..." Julián's voice was wet, thick. "Good."
He stepped closer to the heater. Too close. The heat wasn't just warming him; it was cooking him. And he loved it.
Elena Vargas POV´s
I saw the change the moment the room temperature crossed twenty degrees.
It started with his veins. The faint, dying ember of bioluminescence in his arm didn't just return; it flared. The violet lines shot up his neck, mapping the jugular, then branched across his cheekbone like a lightning strike.
"Julián, step back," I warned, standing up slowly.
He didn't hear me. He was entranced by the heater. He stripped off his soaked t-shirt, exposing his torso. The map of the virus was spreading across his chest, pulsing in time with the hum of the generator.
"The static is back," he whispered, a smile touching his lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was hungry. "It's singing."
"Turn it off," I yelled at Sofía.
"We need the heat for Miguel!" Sofía argued, though she had already drawn her blade.
"Turn it off or we all die!"
Julián spun around. His eyes were no longer brown. The pupils had blown wide, swallowing the iris, and the sclera was flooded with dark blood.
"No," he growled. The voice was deeper, resonating in a chest cavity that seemed to be expanding.
He moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man who was freezing five minutes ago. He lunged, not at us, but at the heater. He grabbed the glowing hot metal cage with his bare hands.
His skin sizzled, but he didn't flinch. He absorbed the thermal energy like a battery.
"Julián, stop!" Camila screamed, rushing forward.
"Stay back!" I tackled her just as Julián swung his arm. The back of his hand caught the heavy steel table, and the metal dented.
The strength. The alpha variant strength. It was heat-activated.
"He's metabolizing the thermal energy," I realized, horror dawning on me. "He's not just a carrier. He's a thermal sink. The heat makes him stronger."
Julián looked at us. The intelligence in his eyes was fading, replaced by pure predatory drive. He looked at Miguel—shivering, weak Miguel—and licked his lips.
"So warm," Julián hissed.
Sofía stepped in front of Miguel, leveling her machete. "I'm putting him down."
"Don't kill him!" Camila shrieked.
"He's gone, kid!" Sofía roared.
Julián crouched, muscles coiling to spring. The small room, once a refuge, had become a cage. And we were locked in with a tiger.