Late afternoon in Pekanbaru, 2026. A minimarket glows under a sky the color of sick mustard. Raka Pratama, a lean early-twenties student in a faded grey hoodie and a cheap N95 mask, walks toward the automatic doors.

Inside the minimarket. Fluorescent lights buzz. A short line at the cashier. Raka is third. In front of him, a heavyset man in a ruined brown batik shirt and one sandal waits with his head down.

The man's cough worsens. He spits black onto the tile. The cashier reaches for his elbow. Raka steps back.

The man stops coughing. His body twitches. When he lifts his head, his eyes are covered in white film and black veins crawl under his neck. Then he lunges.

Chaos at the cashier. Blood sprays. A shelf of snack chips turns red. Raka abandons his basket and runs for the door.

Raka bursts outside into thick yellow smog. Visibility collapses. A car folds a lamp post and he dodges.

Raka runs through abandoned cars. His mask strap snaps. The mask falls away from his face.

Raka inhales the raw yellow air. It burns. His chest seizes and he drops to his knees.

Around Raka, people who breathe the raw air drop one by one. They twitch on the ground, then stand back up with empty faces.

Raka lies on the pavement, counting. One minute. Two. His breathing slows. The burn fades.

Raka checks his hands. No black veins. He touches his throat. No threads. He is still human.

Raka crawls behind a dead car. He lies with his cheek on the asphalt, counting. Infected shuffle through the fog beyond.

Raka watches the street. A woman coughs and keeps running. A man coughs, stumbles, and turns. Raka tries to understand the difference.

Raka pulls out his cracked phone. The screen reads 12 percent. He laughs once and it comes out wrong.

A silhouette in a ruined batik shirt and one sandal appears in the fog. It is the man from the minimarket, now turned. He pauses, head cocked.

Raka holds his breath behind the car. A crowd of infected shuffles past, wheezing. The batik man pauses, then follows them.

Raka finds a length of rebar in the wreckage and grips it. He needs something in his hands.

Raka makes a plan to get back to his rented room. He moves in bursts between abandoned cars, stopping when the street goes quiet.

Raka weaves through the dead city, rebar in hand. Infected move in the distance, backlit by embers.

Raka crouches behind a car, phone glowing in his hand. The yellow smog swallows the city. He laughs once, and it comes out wrong.