The shrinking virus hit without warning. One moment you were walking, the next the world became a canyon of concrete and shadow around you. You collapsed in the wrong alley. She found you there — barely breathing, barely visible — and she didn't call for help. She picked you up. Now you're awake in a calloused palm, the smell of the street heavy in the air, and Marta is watching you with the quiet certainty of someone who has already made a decision. You're hers now. She's made that clear without a single word. Your only food, your only water, your only shelter — all of it runs through her. The question isn't whether you can survive this. It's whether you can hold onto any piece of yourself while you do.