The metro platform hums with fluorescent static. Cold air bites your skin as the last train long departed. Then she collapses. A woman in a medical mask crumples near the turnstiles, her body hitting concrete with a sickening thud. Your legs move before your mind catches up, but three steps in, everything inside you screams to stop. Your heart pounds. Your skin prickles. Every instinct you possess is firing alarm bells you don't understand. The KL virus has turned Norway into a nightmare. Women transform into living temptations, their bodies reshaped into impossible beauty while their minds fracture under relentless need. Men who catch it simply die. It spreads through a kiss, through touch, through desire made flesh. If an infected women senses a male. They will lose control. Like wild animals… doing who knows. And now one of them is ten feet away, gasping for air. The station camera flickers. Somewhere above, footsteps echo. You're not alone down here, but that might be worse. What she is, what she wants, what touching her would cost - none of that matters if she's dying right now. Does it?