Ethan Parker stared at the dual monitors that dominated his workspace, his fingers dancing over the keyboard in a well-rehearsed ballet of code. Lines of text, symbols, and numbers filled the screens in a visual cacophony only he understood. An untouched cup of cold coffee sat on his desk, forgotten in the frenzy of productivity that had seized him since dawn.

His apartment was a sanctuary, a sealed chamber where he orchestrated his life according to his own meticulous standards. A large L-shaped desk held his work rig, flanked by shelves filled with tech journals, programming books, and various collectibles. A top-of-the-line ergonomic chair supported his posture during hours-long coding marathons. Across the room, a tidy kitchenette boasted a full-sized fridge and pantry, both stocked to minimize his need to venture outside.

Natural light rarely penetrated Ethan's space, the curtains perpetually drawn. LED strips taped along the edges of the room substituted the sun's glow. A row of succulent plants on the windowsill offered the only hint of green, a silent testament to his ability to sustain life in a controlled environment.

Ethan's days unfolded much like those before them, planned down to the minute to maximize productivity and minimize distraction. He woke up, meditated, coded, ate, exercised, coded some more, and then devoted a few hours to personal projects or online gaming with randoms. He relished the solitude, the quiet, and the absence of unpredictable elements that plagued the world outside his door.

Just as Ethan was about to shift his focus from work to his evening routine, he felt a small pang of inexplicable unease. He decided to shake it off by catching up on the latest news. With a quick keypress, one of his monitors switched to a live news channel.

The news anchor, usually composed and dispassionate, wore an expression of strained seriousness that caught Ethan's immediate attention. Behind her, the screen displayed shaky footage of first responders in hazmat suits and barricades being erected in public places. She narrated the unfolding events with a voice tinged with a gravity he'd never heard before.

"Authorities are urging citizens to remain calm but vigilant as reports of a rapidly spreading virus continue to pour in from multiple cities. Symptoms include extreme aggression and a seemingly altered state of consciousness. The CDC and WHO are closely monitoring the situation."

Ethan leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he listened. A rapid virus outbreak? Aggressive behavior? It sounded like a poorly written sci-fiction script.

As if reading from that very script, the anchor continued. "In more concerning developments, there have been several isolated reports of individuals who appear...resistant to attempts to subdue them. Some eyewitness accounts even use the term 'zombies.'"

Ethan's hand froze over the mouse, his heartbeat quickening. The anchor moved on to an interview with a visibly nervous medical expert, who stumbled over technical jargon, avoiding concrete answers.

The word "zombies" reverberated in his head. It was the sort of term used in comic books and B-movies, not in breaking news. Skepticism battled with a rising tide of unease. The news wouldn't report it if it weren't serious, would they? But the notion of the zombies roaming the streets seemed ludicrous, impossible.

His eyes darted to the windows, veiled by thick curtains that separated him from the outside world. For years, those walls had shielded him from the chaos and unpredictability of life. Now, they seemed more like paper than stone, fragile barriers that could collapse under the weight of a reality he'd long ignored.

Ethan minimized the news window, trying to divert his thoughts back to his work, to the lines of code that always made sense, that always followed the rules. But his fingers hesitated over the keyboard, a growing sense of dread knotting his stomach.

He switched back to the news. The anchor was now talking about emergency protocols and suggested precautions. Advice flowed on how to barricade homes, what emergency supplies to gather, and numbers to call for more information.

Ethan's eyes flicked again to his kitchenette. Three months ago, he had ordered enough supplies to seemingly last a lifetime of social distancing. But now, the shelves seemed dismally empty. The longevity of canned goods and non-perishables mocked him with their absence. He had planned for many things, but not for an apocalypse.

The news anchor's words about emergency protocols gnawed at him. As he sat there, a memory emerged unbidden: Jane's face, her voice, the last words they exchanged three years ago. The words were sharp, as cutting as a blade. But now, they seemed as distant as the outside world — important, but not immediate.

For a moment, Ethan hesitated. Then, with a movement almost foreign to him, he reached for his phone and scrolled through the contacts list until he found her name. Jane Parker. His younger sister. His thumb hovered over the call button. A press, a connection, and a disconnection from the world he had so carefully constructed. He pressed the button.

The phone rang, its tone an unusual intrusion into his orchestrated sanctuary. After what felt like an eternity, Jane's voice answered. "Hello?"

"Jane, it's Ethan."

A silence so thick he could almost feel it across the distance.

"I've been watching the news," Ethan slowly began, words stumbling as if they were tripping over their feet. "There's something happening, something bad. A virus. People are being urged to stay inside. I was... I was concerned. How are you?"

Jane's voice hardened, laced with incredulity. "Concerned? Now you're concerned? Three years, Ethan. Three years without a word, and now you call because of some virus scare?"

Her words pierced through the veil of unease that had shrouded him, leaving him exposed, and disoriented. "I know, I know it's been a long time. I shouldn't have — "

"Damn right, you shouldn't have," Jane cut him off. "You can't just waltz back into my life because you're scared or bored or whatever it is. People have feelings, Ethan. We're not just code you can just debug when things go wrong."

Ethan gripped the phone tighter, his meticulously ordered world already crumbling under the weight of reality, and now this. "I understand that I messed up, Jane. I never meant to hurt you."

"Oh, you understand? That makes everything so much better then," she replied, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.

"No, it doesn't," Ethan conceded, his voice softening. "I just... Look, the world's going insane, and I thought, for once, that I shouldn't keep hiding behind these walls — literal or otherwise. I'm sorry, Jane."

Silence settled between them, as if the line itself hesitated, unsure of which way the conversation would swing.

Before Jane could reply, a sudden burst of commotion erupted from her end of the line — shouts, the clattering of objects, and a sound Ethan couldn't quite identify but that sent chills down his spine. "Jane? What's happening?"

"Wait, hold on a second, Ethan. Something's going on. I have to — " Her voice cut off abruptly, replaced by static and then, terrifyingly, silence. The call had disconnected.