Scorned Womans Counterattack

After three grueling years fighting the Crimson Flu, using my own blood to create the vaccine that saved millions, I was finally home.

Dr. Peterson from HHS was with me, ready to present my Presidential Medal of Freedom.

All I wanted was to hold my wife, Sarah, and tell her the nightmare was over.

But as I stepped out of the car, Sarah stood on the porch, her eyes wide with terror, not joy.

Then my brother Mark emerged, cradling a hunting rifle, my parents cowering behind him.

"You're infected!" my father yelled. "Stay back!"

Before I could protest my immunity, my gaze fixed on Sarah' s visibly round stomach.

Three years gone. It wasn' t my child.

Mark smirked, "It' s mine."

The world imploded. My own family, the people I fought and bled for, now saw me as a plague.

They gave me two options: banishment to a brutal wilderness or slow death in a rat-infested jail.

Mark, fueled by malice, sedated me, framed me as an aggressive superspreader, and convinced the entire town to burn me alive.