The Rat That Won't Die
A remote village on the outskirts of Pyongyang.
With the eternal Workers' Party and its absolute regime crumbling, the surviving people had nowhere left to go.
There was no army to protect them, no nation to shelter them anymore.
The sun had set earlier than usual, and twilight was already swallowing the world.
In that gathering darkness, a boy huddled inside a wayside shelter, trembling uncontrollably.
He couldn't have been more than sixteen.
Peering ceaselessly through a small window, he seemed to be fleeing from pursuers.
But the boy's condition was far from normal.
Blood from a wound on his arm had soaked clear through his sleeve.
He rolled up the sleeve.
There, plain as day, was a massive bite mark from teeth that had sunk deep.
Yet even stranger was the boy's state.
It had been quite some time since the bite, but there was no change at all.
Even the boy himself seemed utterly bewildered by the fact.
Thud. Thud.
Footsteps echoed from not far away.
Too dark to see clearly, but one thing was certain—they weren't the shambling gait of Infected.
Heavy military boots, drawing closer one by one.
The boy flung open the shelter door and bolted into a narrow alleyway.
For his skinny frame, his movements were impossibly agile.
Wherever he passed, Infected stirred by the footsteps swarmed in from all directions.
And with them came faint pops—Infected crumpling to the ground one after another.
Shadows in the dark held rifles fitted with suppressors.
White smoke curled from their muzzles, accompanied by whispered Chinese.
The boy, evading them, reached a dead end and vaulted the wall into the yard of a house across the way.
A lone Infected wandered there.
Grrraaah!
Then something astonishing happened.
The Infected, charging with a bestial roar, halted right before the boy and resumed shambling as if nothing had occurred.
Sniff! Sniff!
Every time the boy made a sound, it just sniffed at the air, showing no intent to attack.
The boy dashed into a half-open room.
He yanked open an armoire door, crawled inside, and clamped a hand over his mouth.
To stifle even the tiniest breath.
How much time passed?
Thwip!
The suppressor coughed, and the yard-wandering Infected collapsed.
The boy didn't know who they were, but instinct told him one thing.
He couldn't let himself get caught.
A whirlwind of thoughts raced through his mind until he steeled himself.
He had to open the door and make a break for it again.
But when he did, a woman stood right there.
Perhaps it was the bone-chilling cold in her eyes, enough to freeze the crisp autumn air.
Bathed in silvery moonlight, her half-revealed face left the boy breathless.
Black clothes, tactical vest, cap pulled low—she looked like the grim reaper incarnate.
Her lips curved faintly.
"Contact headquarters. Tell them we've found the package."
One of the men who appeared behind her hurriedly keyed his radio at her Chinese command.
"Why're ya doin' this! Let me go!"
Crack!
The boy struggled against her powerful grip, but a blow to the back of his head sent him crumpling into unconsciousness.
"This is Cat, this is Cat. We've found the undying rat. I repeat, we've found the undying rat. Mission complete."
The woman glanced at her subordinate clutching the radio, then removed her cap and shook out her hair.
Blood-red locks fluttered coldly under the night sky.
* * *
The same moment, inside a major hospital's research institute in China.
Far too many soldiers for a mere lab, this was precisely a secret facility under the Communist Party's iron control.
In a perfectly isolated negative-pressure room, medical staff in hazmat suits documented a bound Infected on the bed.
Surrounded by transparent reinforced glass, a general loomed outside.
He turned to the director at his side.
"Can you do it?"
"We can't make a vaccine with this virus alone."
"Nothing's impossible. It's just a matter of who. Make it happen, no excuses."
"Ordinary viruses mutate slowly from a single root over long periods, letting us use naturally formed immune cells for a vaccine. But this one has no root. It's an entirely new virus we've never seen."
"What does that mean? Isn't it a rabies mutation?"
The director adjusted his glasses, looking troubled.
"At first, yes. But now... it's a completely different virus. It's mutating in real time even as we speak—tracing its origin is pointless."
"So what now? No way forward?"
"We need serum from an immune carrier. With that, we could try, even if it takes time."
"The serum's on its way. The Party expects results before then. You up for it?"
This was less the Party's demand and more the general's personal ambition for glory.
Unaware, the director felt his chest tighten at any mention of the Party.
"Once we secure serum soon, we can show results within a year."
"A year? That's too long, don't you think?"
"Pardon?"
The director's eyes widened.
A vaccine against humanity's first virus—one mutating endlessly—in just a year?
That "year" was already a rushed estimate to douse the flames, yet this general knew nothing of medicine.
Then, the general's smartphone buzzed loudly.
"Hold on."
Checking the caller, he stepped into the hallway for privacy.
"Report."
The general's face flushed with excitement as he hung up.
* * *
The same moment, in Beijing, China.
Brisk footsteps echoed down the corridor before the State Council Premier's office.
Not many could make such noise in this notoriously guarded place.
The general's shoulders bore the insignia of his life's achievements.
Knock knock!
As the door opened, he snapped a salute sharp enough to crack bones and entered.
The premier sat inside.
"What is it?"
"Miss Juhwa has found the package."
"What?"
The premier, listening idly, shot to his feet.
This was no small matter.
Truth be told, it wasn't the package that made him leap up.
It was hearing his youngest daughter's name tied to the op.
"How the hell did this happen? How do you run things?!"
"I-I'm sorry. I assumed you'd know..."
The general shrank like a rabbit before a beast at the premier's thunderous roar.
"How many times have I told you not to let Riming run wild? You think my words are a joke?"
"Of course not, sir. But she said she'd gotten your permission, so we had no choice..."
"You call that an excuse? She could've called me! Called! How did she even get to that position? Want to start over from scratch?"
"I have no face to show. But even if it happened again, I couldn't stop her on my own. You know her temperament."
The premier, about to hurl a heavy object, sighed deeply and sank back into his seat.
"I know you've treated Riming like a daughter since she was little. Filled my absences well. This is your last chance. Fail to control her again, and I'll find someone who can."
"Premier! How could you..."
"So do it right. Right! Got it? I might have to go that route in the end."
"...Understood."
The general bowed, eyes brimming.
"So, what's next?"
"Which part, sir?"
"You found the package. There has to be a follow-up. Do I need to spell it out?"
"N-no, sir."
The mood was foul.
In such cases, a smooth, reassuring plan was needed to soothe him.
The general straightened and spoke.
"Effective immediately, we'll cut all communications with Korea. Cancel prior ops, shift to Plan B. We'll eliminate variables short-term and secure the vaccine."
"...Good. Finish clean, and the Chairman and people will rejoice more than anyone. Don't forget."
"Wise words, sir."
"And America?"
The premier polished his glasses.
"Blind to our covert op."
"Watch internals closer."
"Naturally. All infiltration routes sealed. Full staff under surveillance."
"Can I trust that?"
"Absolutely!"
The general's voice boomed down the hall.
"Oh, personal curiosity. That virus—mutation stage?"
"Mutating too fast to measure stages."
"No, I mean, how far along? It's not sprouting wings yet."
"Haha, of course not. Confirmed threats match all reports so far."
"Three types?"
The premier recalled.
"Yes."
"Screaming lurers, fat commanders of monsters, and... what else?"
"Ah, well..."
"Don't know?"
"Apologies. Too many duties—slipped my mind."
Perhaps his honesty helped.
The premier's face wasn't as grim; he even nodded understandingly.
"And?"
"And... right."
Now, the post-op plan for the premier's youngest—the woman codenamed Juhwa, Jang Riming, second in China's hierarchy.
Unlike typical power-scion daughters, Riming's resume was unique.
A martial prodigy from childhood, hailed by masters as a once-in-a-millennium talent.
And more.
Whenever challenge videos mocking Chinese martial arts' practicality hit online platforms, Riming showed up to settle scores.
She rivaled the national chairman in online fame.
Not stopping there, she formed her own secret unit, trained it, and deployed it.
Thus born her codename: Juhwa—Red Flower.
The premier had overlooked his precious youngest's escapades as youthful rebellion at first.
But neglect bred bigger headlines.
No more free rein.
"Disband the unit immediately. Court-martial all involved to prevent repeats."
"Good. Finally a straight answer. I'll trust you once. Punish Riming harshly if needed—no mercy. She's the ringleader. Shred her!"
"...Understood. I'll take my leave."
The general turned, heart heavy with unshed tears.
Easier said than done—court-martial the premier's daughter?
His youngest, no less!
Closing the door with bitter resolve, he sighed deeply.
"Haa..."